Between the Buried and Me
by Alpha Hydra
Summary: In hindsight, Kenny guessed that if fate could be so kind as to finally bestow him with a friend, then he could maybe forgive the whole 'constant dying' thing. Maybe. But don't count on it. SLASH details inside
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** In hindsight, Kenny guessed that if fate could be that kind as to finally bestow him with a friend, then he could maybe forgive the whole 'constant dying' thing. Maybe. But don't count on it. Kenny/Christophe with splashes of Stan/Kyle, Craig/Tweek, Butters/Bradley and [past] Kenny/Butters

**Warning:**Hardcore slash, as summary implies.__This story doesn't really have a plot yet; I'm still working on that, so Beware. I just really felt like writing a Kenny/Christophe one day, and it turned into this monster. Oh, and since it doesn't really have a plot, the rating may change one of these days...

**Disclaimer: **I don't own South Park; if I did, Christophe and Gregory would be in the series.

**A/N: **The actual title for this story is actually "Life is Like a Cocksucking Asshole", but since that has a few too many naughty words, it got changed to... whatever it is I changed it to.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kenny never really liked the summer.

Sure, it was almost impossible for him to die of frostbite (and that was definitely a good thing), but the bears weren't hibernating in the summer time, so that sort of balanced that upside down. And, since school was out, he didn't get free food anymore, so he had to either eat frozen waffles for breakfast, lunch and dinner or starve. Which wasn't cool. But the worst thing about summer was that when everyone else was sent off to their summer camps, Kenny was left alone to thaw in South Park because he couldn't afford to get sent to camp.

So, Kenny was actually one of the only people who looked forward to going back to school. Even if it would be his senior year, and he'd have to start listening to Stan and Kyle talk about college and shit. Kenny wouldn't be going to college, unless by some amazing feat of luck he managed to get a full scholarship to somewhere, or the government felt like helping him out, which was unlikely.

But all of these depressing thoughts were easy to get rid of, because it was early July and he wouldn't have to worry about senior year and college for at least two more months. Right now, it was the fourth of July, and Kenny was getting a little paranoid. After all, it was a little past two in the morning, and the fireworks had long stopped exploding overhead, and _he wasn't dead yet_.

It was very disconcerting.

Kenny had been walking around aimlessly since eleven o'clock that night, looking for something to do that wouldn't get him killed. The only thing that he could think of was to walk around while not dying, so that's what he ended up doing. And except for the part where he was hopelessly bored, the plan had gone perfectly.

Stan and Kyle had been sent to Camp New Grace by their parents after walking in on the two of them having a Super Best Friend Study Session, which Kenny found both retarded and hilarious. Because Stan and Kyle probably _were_ in mad, passionate love with each other, but neither of them had realized it yet. They were bound to finally understand while at that Gay camp. And also, since Stan and Kyle were Stan and Kyle, they would probably end up being "Accountabilibuddies" to each other, and how was that supposed to help them become ungay?

And Cartman had gone to a Neo-Nazi thing a few days ago, so he was bound to be gone for a while longer. Kenny wasn't looking forward to when he returned speaking German and tried to rally the masses against Jews. Again.

Really, after the 12th time, you'd think he'd get tired of it.

So, because he wasn't really a main character in the television show that was his life, that left him alone on Independence Day. Normally, he'd spend the day feeding bottle rockets to cats with Stan, Kyle and Cartman until he was killed by a pack of cats in heat. Which really hurt, because those damn bastard cats had really sharp claws.

Now that he though about it, he wasn't really sure if he was depressed that he was alone, or if he was happy he hadn't been mauled by cats. Maybe it was a mixture of the two.

But anyway, South Park looked very different in the middle of July, when the snow had finally melted off of the ground and the trees began to thaw. So, by complete accident, Kenny had managed to stumble upon Stark's Pond without even realizing it that night.

It was the music that had drawn his attention. He wouldn't have even noticed the flickering campfire if he hadn't heard the strange music that accompanied it. It had a wild sort of violin-thing going on that Kenny would have ordinarily found really gay if it hadn't been so catchy.

Kenny followed the source of the music and found a group of people sitting around a campfire with a pickup truck parked at the edge of the lake, its headlights on for more light. He recognized one of them as that French kid that had transferred to Park County High School a couple of years back. The Mole, everyone called him, but Kenny was pretty sure that wasn't his real name.

Kenny didn't really know him; Stan and Kyle said he was pretty cool, and Cartman hated his guts, so Kenny guessed that he probably wasn't that bad of a guy. He was always really quiet at school; he didn't talk to anyone and could always be found leaning against the bench in the little park across the street from the school during lunchtime, smoking a cigarette and tapping a shovel against the bench. He was unwillingly one of the coolest kids in school. Unlike the other loners at school, The Mole just had something about him that made all the girls swoon. He was broody, and dark, and mysterious, and would sooner break your neck than look to you.

But this guy, who was talking and laughing with at least five other teenagers gathered around a small campfire, listening to strange folk music, was none of those things. He stood up and grabbed a long necked bottle from one of the boys in the semi-circle, waving his arms as if he were trying to take flight.

"Et que vous pensez que je l'ai dis?" he said. "J'ai dis: Desolé. Tu es un bon coup, et je ne te deteste pas, mais, c'est à moi."

"Et que s'est-il passé? Te dissait rien?" one of the boys asked as The Mole took a swig of whatever was in the bottle (Kenny supposed it was alcohol, which would explain the Mole acting so... not like himself).

"Non," The Mole said. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it slowly. "Je l'a frappé en la tête avec ma pelle." (1)

He took a drag of the cigarette and watched the smoke rise until it disappeared into the darkness. The circle around him burst into laughter. Even half obscured from the group by a rather large pine tree, Kenny saw that as the Mole smiled at his friends, it didn't quite reach his eyes. They were steely and cold as he stared up into the vastness of the sky, and Kenny idly wondered what he would be thinking about to get that sort of expression on his face.

Then he let his eyes fall from the sky and caught sight of Kenny. The Mole raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The strange song that had first attracted Kenny's attention ended with the vibrating note of the violin, and soon was replaced by an even stranger song.

Kenny heard loud laughter erupt from the rest of the group and a bunch of what Kenny thought would be French catcalling, but The Mole didn't seem to really notice. He just rolled his eyes, flipped the others off, and smiled at Kenny. He flicked his cigarette into the campfire and neatly stepped over one of his friends (who looked like they had passed out), making his way over to the Kenny.

The others watched as The Mole came closer to Kenny, a funny sort of smile plastered onto his face. Kenny guessed he was drunk, which could either be a good thing or a bad thing. But judging by the way The Mole was half-dancing as he walked towards Kenny, he figured there would be no killing from a drunken Mole.

"You are ze boy 'oo always dies, non?" he asked.

"Yeah, my name's Kenny."

"Do you want to join us? We 'ave booze."

Kenny thought about this for almost half a second.

"Do you have food too?"

The Mole nodded, but it could also have been considered part of his half dancing, so Kenny wasn't entirely sure.

"Oui, we still have some food from earlier."

"Okay, sure."

Because after all, it beat eating frozen waffles alone in the middle of the night. He followed The Mole back to the campfire and was handed an unopened bottle of vodka by one of the French kids. Kenny took it and sat down, taking a spot a little removed from the fire, just in case (after all, alcohol was flammable).

"Okay beetches," The Mole said. " 'Ee is American, so no more French, okay? Eet is rude."

The others said something in French, which caused The Mole to respond in something equally as un-understandable.

"Zese are my friends from Marseilles," he said, waving his hand in an expansive gesture. "Henri eez passed out; ze girl with ze fake tits eez Gabrielle, and zey are Pierre, Louis and Greg."

Kenny nodded at each of them, feeling very exposed. Since it was the middle of summer, it was one of the only times when he wouldn't wear his orange parka, and his tight black t-shirt was sticking uncomfortably to his stomach in the humid night.

"Hey, I'm Kenny," he said, to which they all replied with various forms of 'allo' and 'bonjour' and 'salut' and polite nods of acknowledgement.

"I am Christophe," The Mole said suddenly, taking a large gulp from the almost empty bottle in his hands. "I do not think your friends would 'ave mentioned it."

"No, they didn't," Kenny said, surprised when The Mole—Christophe only shrugged and continued to move his shoulders in a lazy half-dance way.

"This song is for pussies," one of the others, Pierre Kenny thought it was, said after a few moments of silence. "Change it."

"Fuck you," Christophe answered, searching his pockets until he found another cigarette. "You just do not understand ze complexity of my music."

"It's pop-rock," Pierre insisted, rolling his eyes when Christophe sent him a glare. "French pop-rock, but that hardly makes a difference."

"Whatever," Christophe said. He turned back to Kenny, who was still holding his unopened bottle awkwardly. "What, are you too much of a pussy to drink vodka?"

"You wish," Kenny said with a smile.

So he opened the bottle of vodka, and downed nearly half of it in the first few gulps. Christophe's friends all cheered.

And that was how Kenny spent the rest of his Independence Day; listening to a bunch of French kids talk about a few of their most recent killings (Kenny assumed they were joking...maybe) and generally acting like any normal American teenagers would while completely smashed. It was actually fun.

Kenny died of alcohol poisoning that night. Well, really, it was more like that morning, if he really thought about it. The last thing he remembered seeing before literally puking his guts out was a very drunk Christophe dancing with Gabrielle to one of those songs with the violin and the flute. _Very 18__th__ century river dance meets French gypsy music,_ Kenny thought vaguely. It was intoxicating in a very surreal sort of way.

Then the blackness enveloped him, and he had to float around the proverbial limbo for a while before he descended into Hell.

Kenny sort of hated going to Hell. It was too hot, for one thing. And all the noobes were running around like chickens with their heads cut off, screaming and crying because they didn't want to be tortured. It was all kind of annoying. But the food was good, and, if you knew where to go, the company wasn't too bad either. Plus it beat going to Heaven by a long shot. Still, if given the choice, he'd prefer to be alive.

Kenny sat relatively alone by the main gates of Hell, not really wanting to speak to anyone right now. He watched the population-odometer thingy tick quickly as he scarfed down some chicken wings and hoped he wouldn't barf them up later when he was back on earth.

He chucked his empty KFC bucket at Napoleon when he happened to walk by. Which was really funny, but he ended up getting a whole slew of highly creative insults thrown at him, so it also kind of sucked. All of which Kenny understood because, for some reason or other, whenever someone died they automatically learned how to speak English.

Finally, Tyler the demon flew by and saw Napoleon threatening Kenny with his empty chicken wings bucket and kindly escorted the lost soul back to his Hellish Empire. To be fair, it wasn't really an empire, everyone just called it that so that Napoleon wouldn't get pissed. In actuality, it was just a block of land he had acquired by pelting all the demons with peanut brittle until they got sick of it and gave in to his demands. The only thing he had to do in exchange was to stay there and not bother anyone for most of the day. As they say, long live Napoleon.

Tyler sent Kenny a small shrug and a quick thumbs up before he was gone, taking the vengeful Napoleon with him.

Kenny rolled his eyes and checked the giant digital clock that floated by the population counter. It read 2:59 pm. _Finally, _Kenny thought, wiping the dirt and barbecue sauce off his fingers.

Kenny had learned many years ago that getting back to earth was as simple as taking an elevator back up (literally). And for reasons he never really understood, the elevator to earth only ever worked at 3:00, am and pm. Kenny didn't get why more people didn't just catch the next one up to earth instead of spending eternity around stupid shit heads. Because really, it wasn't even that hard to find, if the flashing neon sign was any indicator of its sleuth. But he guessed, no one was really looking for it anyway. Besides, who had ever heard of an elevator to earth?

There was the highway to Hell and the stairway to Heaven, but the elevator to earth? That was just stupid.

With a sudden creaking, the elevator doors opened, and Kenny slipped inside. He pushed the Earth button and waited, wondering who had invented cheesy elevator music and what kind of horrible punishment they were suffering because of it. Finally, the elevator doors shuttered to a close, and he began his ascent.

It takes exactly four minutes and 23 seconds to get back to earth. Kenny knew this because when he was younger, he used to count while riding it back up to earth, afraid some demon might realize what he was doing and take him back down. Those four minutes were always the most boring moments of his life.

He would always, always, always think of the exact same fucking thing as he zoomed back to earth, which went something along these lines:

-_Maybe this time someone will think I died for good._

_-Don't be fucking retarded Kenny. Why would they even think that sort of shit?_

_-True._

…

_-So does it make me morbid or depressed or some shit because I actually want someone to care about the shit that happens to me?_

_-Duh bitch. And it makes you a pussy. So stop it._

…

_-I wonder what would happen if I pressed the Heaven button this time, or the 'Crab People City' one._

_-Maybe next time I'll try it out._

_-And is it really a sign of insanity if you start arguing with yourself?_

_-Only if you start answering back._

_-Oh. OK then._

And usually by then, the doors would open and he'd somehow find his soul back inside his very alive and very mangled body. This time, however, he didn't even think about the crab people.

This time, his mind kept drifting back to the campfire at Stark's Pond, watching the way the early morning moonlight and the dying embers of the campfire made strange shadows on Christophe's face as he danced. And he kept hearing that one song play back in his mind too, as if it was on constant repeat on the ipod in his brain. He kept remembering the way the guitar's chords echoed through the summer air, and Christophe's face as he proudly proclaimed the music was 'too complex to understand'.

Which made it both ironic and awkward that when Kenny opened the eyes of his still-hung-over body, it was to see the French boy in question leaning against the lonely tree by Stark's Pond, lit cigarette in hand.

He was watching the surface of the water intently, as if lost in thought. His shovel was propped up against the tree and beside that, there was a large, freshly dug, grave-sized hole.

Kenny rolled over to his side, moaned, and puked. So much for the chicken wings. Christophe was looming over him an instant later, putting his cigarette out in the muddy grass underfoot.

"So, you are alive zen?" he asked.

"Well duh," Kenny answered, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the afternoon sunlight from frying his brain.

"I told ze uzzers you would be fine, but zey did not believe me. Zey just said I was fucking wasted and to start digging your grave. Zen, ze cocksuckers fled, those fucking beetches."

"So what are you still doing here?" Kenny asked weakly.

Another wave of nausea wracked through his body, but he forced himself to not throw up for the time being. The Mole watched him with a critical eye, as if systematically categorizing all of Kenny's symptoms and shit.

"I 'ad to make sure you would wake up," he said after a long pause. "Zat way, I would know if I had to bury your corpse or help you recover from your hang over."

Kenny blinked. The Mole pulled out another cigarette and lit it nonchalantly.

"Oh."

"Oui. Oh."

Christophe took a long drag from his cigarette before he sat up again, brushing the dirt off his baggy black jeans.

"Come," he said, not bothering to give Kenny a hand up. "We will go to my house, and I will make you something to eat."

Kenny jumped up, wobbling slightly as a wave of dizziness washed over his body. Surprisingly, the Mole grabbed him by the shoulder and studied his face. He somehow knew when the dizziness had dissipated, because with a small nod he turned and walked off in the direction of town.

"How are you not as fucked up as me?" Kenny asked as they crossed Main street.

"I am not a pansy who cannot hold his liquor," Christophe said as if he were complimenting Kenny's parka. He shrugged and took another drag off his fag.

"I'm not a fucking pansy!" Kenny said.

The Mole snorted.

"_S'il te plait_ Kenny," he said. "You fucking died. How much more of a pansy can you be?"

Kenny said nothing. He pouted and kicked at an empty coke can roughly.

"Eef it makes you feel any better, I am still very much drunk."

Kenny looked up from glaring at the cement.

"Really?"

The Mole nodded, blowing a puff of smoke out through his nose.

"Oui," he said. "I did not sleep because I was busy digging your fucking grave, so my body didn't have ze time to get hung over. In a few hours, you will be able to rip on me while I puke my guts out."

Kenny beamed. The Mole sent him a sideways glance and rolled his eyes. They walked in silence the rest of the way, stopping only once for Kenny to throw up into a nearby trash can. Christophe waited patiently by his side, holding the butt of his old cigarette in his right hand. He had smoked his last one about five minutes ago.

"Ze bathroom is down ze hall and to ze left," he said when they entered the Mole's strangely normal house.

Kenny nodded weakly, and stumbled off in search of said bathroom.

He stayed in there for nearly an hour, clutching the porcelain bowl and wishing he would die all over again, but by the time he washed his hands and helped himself to some of the Mole's mouthwash, he was feeling better. Kenny wandered around the house and found Christophe in the kitchen, smoking a new cigarette as a few pots and pans simmered on the stove behind him.

"You cook?" Kenny asked, following the delicious smell.

Christophe nodded and turned, sifting through his cabinets until he pulled out two bowls.

"Huh," Kenny said thoughtfully, watching The Mole as he set the table for the two of them. He sat down, his body suddenly feeling exhausted. "I wouldn't have thought so."

"Why not?" the Mole asked. "I'm French."

He said this as he pulled two wine glasses from a shelf, as if it explained everything. Kenny supposed that it probably did.

"But it seems..."

"Gay?" Christophe supplied. Kenny smiled a bit sheepishly and nodded. The Mole only shrugged and pulled out a bottle of unopened water from his fridge, pouring it as if it were some expensive wine. "I lived in France for much of my life, during my early mercenary training period. While I was learning to chop people's 'eads off with one stroke of my shovel, I was learning how to set a table and cook."

"Huh," Kenny said again.

Christophe turned and did something at the stove. When he turned around, he set a plate of some sort of stew in front of Kenny. He fixed himself a plate and sat down across from Kenny, as he picked up his spoon and took a tentative bite.

It was good. Really good.

"What is this?" he asked between mouthfuls.

"Lamb Navarin," Christophe said, taking a sip of water.

"It's really good."

The Mole only shrugged and continued to eat in silence.

Kenny finished his bowl in record time. He had never been to a French restaurant in his lifetime, but he figured that if that was the kind of shit they served there, he completely understood why those places were so fucking expensive.

"Are you feeling better?" The Mole asked as he watched Kenny down his glass of water in one gulp.

Kenny nodded.

"Thanks."

The Mole shrugged again.

"Eet was nothing."

Kenny spent the rest of the day at The Mole's house, not really sure if he should just leave or if he needed to be asked to leave. He wasn't really sure which would be more rude. Besides, he figured that his dad was still drinking and his mom was still yelling, so he didn't want to go home just yet.

It was mid afternoon anyway, so it wasn't long before the sun was setting and Christophe's mom came home from work. She offered to make them some chocolate mousse and sent them up to Christophe's room while she cleaned up their lunch.

"You're mom's nice," Kenny said.

Christophe shrugged.

"She is polite to strangers," he said. "Plus, I think she likes you."

"Really?" Kenny asked, bemused. "No one's parents ever like me."

"You were ze first person I brought home who did not call God a pussy or a cocksucker," the Mole said. "Therefore, she thinks you are better than ze uzzers."

"Oh," Kenny said.

He wondered how many people Christophe knew who had called God a pussy before. He didn't ask, however, as he got the feeling that Christophe would start ranting about it.

They spent the rest of the night watching television and eating chocolate mousse (which, holy shit, was the best thing Kenny had ever tasted in his fucking life). At sometime around two in the morning, Christophe stood and stretched.

"If you do not want to go home, you could spend ze night here," he said, watching Kenny critically.

Kenny looked down at his empty cup of chocolate mousse and played with the spoon, feeling a faint blush creep across his face. Normally he would turn down his friend's requests; he always felt as if they were doing it out of pity. But this time, he felt that Christophe wouldn't give a rat's ass either way. It was oddly comforting. It was like Christophe just knew Kenny didn't want to go home, and he wasn't bothered by the fact, or wasn't bothered enough to take pity on Kenny.

And Kenny really, really didn't want to go home.

"Sure," he said.

Christophe nodded and opened the sliding doors to his closet, pulling out a black sleeping bag a moment later.

"Here," he said, throwing it over his shoulder. It hit Kenny on the head, toppling him over backwards and causing him to break his neck on the Mole's television set.

"Goddammit!" Kenny said when he found himself in Hell again.

But because it was actually 2:45, Kenny only had to wait a few minutes before he was back in his body, gasping as he worked oxygen through his rapidly healing trachea. The Mole was sitting on his bed cross-legged, watching Kenny with amusement.

"You actually died by my sleeping bag?" he asked when Kenny could breathe normally.

"Shut up," Kenny mumbled, flushing from a mixture of embarrassment and lack of oxygen. "It's not my fault my body is fragile."

The Mole laughed for the first time since Kenny had known him, or hell, even heard about him.

"Oh, I am sorry Kenny," he said between his laughter. "I 'ad no idea your body was so _fragile._"

"Fuck you Mole," Kenny said, crawling into the sleeping bag. It was warm and comfortable for a sleeping bag, which surprised Kenny.

"Just go to sleep," Christophe said, chucking a pillow at Kenny and making sure it hit him in the stomach.

Kenny did just that, and it was one of the best night's sleep he ever had.

As he drifted off, he realized that he might have actually made a new friend. The idea warmed him even more than the comfortable sleeping bag.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

(1) That French bit earlier on roughly translates to:

"And what do you think I told her?" he said. "I said: sorry. You're a great fuck, and I don't hate you, but it's what I do."

"And then what happened? Did she say anything?" one of the boys asked...

"Non," The Mole said. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it slowly. "I hit her in the head with my shovel."

**A/N:** (I Know, I know; you're sick of hearing me talk. 'Just get on with the story already Alpha Hydra!' I'm sorry but) Christophe was listening to Alexandre Kinn, more specifically a song called 'Aude'. Find him on Myspace; it's really catchy!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Standard disclaimers apply. If you happen to have forgotten them, just go back to ch 1. (And FYI, Bastille Day is on July 14, like ten days after Independence Day). Hooray for Stan, Kyle, and Cartman!

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A couple of weeks later and Stan and Kyle were still at "Pray the gay away" camp. Cartman was still no where to be found as well, but Kenny found he wasn't as lonely as he normally would be. He guessed that he must have passed some sort of Mole-friend test, because now he was always around. They spent nearly every other day in each other's company, so Kenny really didn't mind if his friends seemed to be on a longer than average hiatus.

Sometimes he wouldn't see the Mole for weeks, but then he'd slip into Kenny's room silently in the dead of night and take him to the rooftop of some building with a _no trespassing _sign on it to smoke. Other times he would just walk into Kenny's house without knocking and invite him over to watch _Les Miserables_ while his mother was at work. Or they would just sit around the park, sometimes talking and ranting about how much God and life sucked, and other times just watching the grass grow, Christophe with a perpetual cigarette in his hand.

Sometime after Bastille Day (that The Mole made them celebrate by constructing a massive breakout of the local jail; Christophe had assured Kenny that it was very fitting in a French way right before Kenny was killed by a stampede of convicted felons), The Mole made a bet with Kenny. If he could last the rest of the summer without dying even once, Christophe would make him crepes for breakfast every morning for three months.

And so, because Kenny had started loving French food, he took the bet. Either way, it was a win/win situation for him. He got to live, and at the end of summer, he'd have so many chocolate crepes he'd die of chocolate poisoning.

Then one day, sometime in the middle of August, just a few short days before school was to start, Stan and Kyle came back. Kenny spotted them when he was watching the trash flutter across the railroad tracks around noon, waiting for the Mole to come by.

He then promptly freaked out. After all, Kenny hadn't died in 31 fucking days! And Kyle was just walking towards his house, laughing at something Stan had said, carrying a javelin pole as if it were the safest thing in the world. So not cool.

"What eez ze matter with you now?" Christophe's bored voice floated over from the doorway, startling Kenny as he threw things around his room frantically.

"Fuck Christophe," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can't you fucking knock or something?"

"Eet never occurred to me," he said honestly. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for my helmet," Kenny said, remembering the impending danger and restarting his search. "Or my body armor. I am _not_ going to get impaled on a javelin pole three days before school starts. I fucking swear—"

"Kenny, what—?"

"Kenny! Kenny! Are you in there?!?" Stan called from Kenny's window.

"Oh," the Mole said, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket.

"Yeah," he muttered. Kenny thought he saw a strange expression cross the Mole's face, but it was gone a second later. Kenny shrugged inwardly and opened the window, both to let the future smoke out of his room and to properly greet his retarded friends.

"Hey dudes," he said, eying the pole wearily. He couldn't help it. Getting impaled hurt. "What's up?"

"Dude, you will not believe the shit that happened to us this summer," Kyle said, waving his arms and causing the long pole to wobble dangerously in his grip.

"Yeah, we'll tell you all about it if you want," Stan said, letting his eyes linger on Kyle's face for a few seconds more than was necessary. "We were going to go to Cartman's. He said he wanted to show us something and told us to bring the javelin pole."

"Oh, Cartman's back?" Kenny asked weakly. Did fate really hate him that much?

"Yeah, he just got back too," Kyle said with a little less enthusiasm than Stan.

From somewhere behind him, Kenny heard a loud crash, as if something had been dropped suddenly by a certain French boy. Kenny suppressed the urge to laugh.

"What the fuck was that?" Kyle asked.

"Oh, nothing. Mutant rats, probably," Kenny answered airily, his face breaking into a large grin.

"So dude, are you coming? Cartman wanted us there like 20 minutes ago."

"Umm..." Kenny said. "Hold on."

He turned back to Christophe, who was holding Kenny's old Bronco's helmet with a wry smile on his face.

"I found eet."

Kenny paused, his urgency forgotten for the moment. There was just something really fucking hilarious about a mercenary-slash-assassin standing in the midst of a shattered old Space Trooper Halloween costume, holding an abused football helmet in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other.

"Cool," Kenny said because it was the only thing he could say without bursting out into peals of laughter.

"Kenny? Where'd you go?" Kyle called from the window.

And then the urgency of the situation hit him again, and he paled.

"What do I do Christophe? Shit, I'm going to die!"

Christophe shrugged and tossed the helmet to Kenny, who caught it with a scowl. Christophe seemed to think that the best form of advice was a noncommittal shrug. The Bastard.

"Go with your friends," he said. "Eef you are still alive tonight, I will have made you crème brûlée."

"And if I die?"

The Mole shrugged again, pulling a lighter out of one of his pockets.

"Eet is best served chilled anyway," he said. "I have not made eet before because eet requires ze use of a blow torch."

Kenny felt the blood drain from his face again. The Mole laughed.

"Go. Have fun, and do not die," he said and turned to leave. "And you should theenk about getting anuzzer helmet. Yours would be useless eef you want to protect ze front of your pretty face. Try getting one of zose helmets for motorcycles. Zey 'ave face masks."

"Fuck you Frenchie!" Kenny called with a smile on his face.

The Mole flipped him off and left, presumably to go psycho and torture helpless desserts with blow torches. He definitely wanted some of that tonight. Umm... the crème brulee thing, he thought to himself, not the blow torch torture part, or the...

"Kenny, who the hell are you talking to?" Stan asked. Kenny turned around and saw him sitting on the windowsill, a small frown on his face.

"Christophe," Kenny answered.

"Who? Oh, you mean that Mole guy?"

Kenny nodded and dropped his helmet with a dull thud. Christophe was right. The Broncos could not save him now.

"Since when do you know him?"

"Independence Day," Kenny answered.

"Oh. Well, that's cool. So, you in or out?"

Kenny smiled in a grim sort of way, as if steeling himself for the worst.

"Yeah, I'm in."

He climbed out his window shortly after Stan, as he wasn't sure if his parents were around or not. While The Mole was the master of stealth and could break into and out of Kenny's house with hardly anyone noticing him, Kenny most certainly couldn't.

They began the 10 minute walk back to Cartman's house, Kenny still eying the javelin wearily.

"So, how was camp?" he asked just to make conversation.

Stan and Kyle both simultaneously blushed, which then caused Kenny to smirk deviously, his dread temporarily forgotten.

"It was pretty lame," Stan said, careful to avoid Kenny's eyes.

"Yeah," Kyle agreed. "The usual happened."

"Usual as in 'you learned something today' or 'camp director turns out to be a werewolf trying to steal gay boy's souls'?"

"Both," Stan said, and blushed harder (if that was actually possible). Kenny would have told him that he risked dying if he let too much blood rush to his face, but decided against it. That was probably just him anyway.

"So you two finally realized that you've had the hots for each other since like kindergarten and decided to have super hot monkey sex?" he said instead.

"What?!?" Stan asked, stopping dead in his tracks.

"How can you have the hots for someone in kindergarten?" Kyle asked, looking more curious than anything.

"Kyle!"

Kyle laughed and stopped beside his best friend. After a second of hesitation, he slipped his free arm around Stan's waist. The javelin wobbled dangerously in his other hand, and Kenny took half a step back. Because as much as he finally wanted to be proven right about his Stan and Kyle theories, there were much more important things in life.

Like crème brûlée and chocolate crêpes, for instance.

"What's the matter Stan?" Kyle asked in a way that he probably didn't even realize sounded sexy. "Are you ashamed of me?"

Stan cast a glance at Kenny and sighed.

"Aww Stan," Kenny supplied helpfully. "Don't be a pussy. It's only me, and you know you can trust me."

Stan glared at him in a way that said he most certainly could not trust him, before turning back to Kyle and kissing him defiantly on the lips. Kyle made a surprised squeak noise in the back of his throat as his stifled giggles were abruptly cut off. Quickly, he dropped the javelin in favor of wrapping that arm around Stan's neck.

Kenny dove under a conveniently located bench as the javelin harmlessly clattered to the floor. He would have stayed down there until Stan and Kyle's rapidly evolving make-out session was over, but then a voice in the back of his head (which was beginning to sound more and more like the Mole every day) started to laugh at him and call him a pussy. Kenny scowled and bravely hauled himself out from his hiding place.

By this time, Stan and Kyle had unglued their faces and were watching Kenny with matching worried expressions.

"Dude, what's up with you?" Kyle asked, picking up the javelin and continuing on their walk.

"Nothing," Kenny said as he stuffed his hands into his jean's pockets. It was times like this when he wished it was cold enough to wear his parka.

"Are you sure? Because you kinda just pulled yourself out from under a park bench."

"Fuck you Kyle," Kenny mumbled. "I just don't want to die."

Kyle sent Stan a puzzled look, who shrugged in response.

As they jumped the fence into Cartman's backyard, Kenny couldn't help but wonder just what the fuck they could possibly need that god damn death pole for. Cartman was talking to someone in a dark green tuxedo, his back to Kyle, Stan and Kenny. Right by his back door was a small, makeshift ring spray painted onto the grass of the yard, just a few feet in diameter. Ike was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the circle, reading an old, battered copy of _A Comedy of Errors._

Sometimes Kenny forgot that Ike was a genius. Seriously, when Kenny was eleven, he couldn't even get through those _Shakespeare for dummies _books without getting totally confused. And that was when he was forced to read them for school.

"Ike?" Kyle asked dubiously. "What are you doing here?"

Ike sighed and closed the book, careful to mark the page he had left off on with his Terrance and Phillip bookmark.

"Cartman gave me twenty bucks to come and sit here for a while," he said, sounding bored.

"What?"

Kyle was turning that particular shade of red that was reserved especially for when Cartman was doing something offensive. Stan frowned, and Kenny could clearly see the wheels in his head turning.

"Kyle, Stan, you've made it," Cartman said in that fake-professional voice that did not bode well for them. "Oh, hey Kenny."

Kenny nodded in acknowledgement. As Kyle and Stan turned towards Cartman, Kenny decided that sitting by Ike might be the safest thing for him to do.

"Hey Kenny," Ike said, not looking up from his book. "Ready for school Monday?"

"Yeah, I guess." Kenny watched Kyle yell at Cartman for a while, not really listening to what he might be saying. "So, why exactly are you here again? Besides Carman's twenty bucks?"

Ike rolled his eyes and closed his book again.

"Cartman's got this plan to start the second Holocaust again," he sighed. "He said that Phase One was to figuratively assert his dominance over the Jews by literal means."

Kenny raised an eyebrow.

"So he plans to pole vault over you?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Kenny looked back over to his friends. Stan was holding onto Kyle by the stomach, trying to keep his best friend turned lover from launching himself at Cartman, who was holding the javelin pole and scowling. Kenny laughed.

"So why aren't you pitching a bitch-fit like your brother over there?"

Ike just shrugged.

"I knew Kyle would react like that," he pointed to his brother, "so I knew that he'd come, get mad, and probably beat Cartman up if Stan didn't find a way to calm him down. Either way, he'd take me home and I wouldn't get jumped. This way, I get twenty bucks for sitting in Cartman's backyard for about an hour."

And as if on cue, Kyle stomped over to where the two of them were talking.

"Come on Ike, we're going."

Ike smiled.

"See? Like clockwork."

"Huh," Kenny said as Ike dusted the grass off of his pants and the cover of his book.

"God dammit Kyle!" Cartman said. "Don't be such a lame Jew fag! Alright, fine. _Fine._ I'll just have to use a replacement Jew."

Kyle sighed. Stan automatically took his hand and squeezed it, as if silently asking for patience. Cartman didn't seem to notice.

"What are you talking about, Fatass?" Kyle asked, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand and sounding as if he really didn't want to know.

"Look, just watch."

Suddenly, he grabbed Kenny roughly by the wrist and shoved him into the circle. Kenny lost his balance and fell hard on his ass.

"Hey asshole--"

"Kenny will represent the entire Jewish community. So instead of you getting sand all up in your vagina, you can just watch as I assert my authoritah over you."

Kenny blanched. He tried to stand again, but Cartman just kept pushing him to the floor.

"Cartman—" Kenny said.

"No seriously Kyle," Cartman answered as if Kenny had never spoken. "This way, you get what you want, and get what I want. Everybody wins."

"Kyle dude," Stan finally said, and Kenny smiled; of anyone, Stan wouldn't let him die like this. "He's not going to fucking shut up about this."

What? Kenny frowned. Kyle only pinched the bridge of his nose again.

"Fine," he sighed. "Whatever."

"What?" Kenny asked, finally managing to jump out of reach from Cartman. "What do you mean 'fine' dude?!?"

"I mean whatever; it's just one of Cartman's retarded schemes that'll end up falling apart before school starts like always."

"Ey Fag!"

"So you're just going to fucking let him jump over me like it's all fucking up to you, asshole? Like I'm not the one who's going to die during this fucking escapade???"

"Okay Kenny, seriously," Kyle said with a bewildered look on his face. "What is up with you today? You've been acting weird since we first saw you."

"Yeah dude, what's crawled up your vagina and died?" Cartman asked, that trademark scowl on his face again. "You're not normally this uncool."

"My fucking problem?" Kenny asked, backing away from all of them as if they were the crazy ones. A part of him realized he was about to go fucking hysterical, but who gave a fuck right now? If Kenny wanted to go crazy for once in his life, he'd damn well do it. And this time, he hoped a piano wouldn't land on his head. Those types of incidents tended to drain a situation of its intensity.

"My fucking _problem_ is that if I let you do this, you're gonna miss because the only other time you've ever pole vaulted was like ten years ago when you were pretending to be retarded, retard! And then you'll snap that goddamn metal pole in half with your fat ass, but you'll be fine. You'll be all right because you'll be tossed into that fucking heap of old stuffed animals over fucking there—" he pointed to a spot not 10 feet away, where there did indeed sit a pile of Cartman's old stuffed animals from elementary school, "—But the other half of that fucking pole will shoot straight at me and go right through my fucking head. And then I'll die and you'll say 'oh my god you killed Kenny you bastards' and that'll be the end of it for you, but I'll be stuck in fucking Hell for like 10 hours until I can fucking get back up here and I'll get a headache from the holes in my head stitching themselves back together and you'll have lost interest and I'll have lost my bet to Christophe and like HELL you are going to come between me and my fucking crepes _goddammit!!!_"

It was all very dramatic, complete with the foot stomp and angry pout and everything.

Silence reigned after Kenny's little outburst. Ike was the the one who found his voice first.

"Who's Christophe?"

"Yeah dude; what's that fagot got to do with anything?" Cartman asked. "Look, just quit being such a fag and get back in the circle."

And so, because Kenny was still hysterical and freaking out, he was forced to do the one thing he had never done before. He punched Cartman in the jaw. Hard. Cartman reeled back from both the force of the impact and from shock.

"Dude," Kyle said, but Kenny had already marched away angrily, his hands clenched into fists by his side.

Another moment passed in utter silence.

"You know, he's probably right," Stan said thoughtfully as he watched Kenny disappear.

"About what?" Kyle asked.

"About him dying. That's probably exactly how it would go down."

"Yeah, but you know what kind of sucks? I didn't even think about that possibility happening."

"Yeah," Cartman added, looking at the javelin in his hand and rubbing his jaw with the other. "But for some reason, it all seems very predicable suddenly."

"You guys are so fucking stupid," Ike said, shaking his head. "I'm going home."

"Ey, get back here you Canadian Jew! I want my 20 bucks back!"

"Fuck you Fatass," was the only response he got.

"EY!"

Meanwhile, Kenny's highly dignified retreat was only slightly marred by the 16-wheeler that came zooming down the otherwise empty street. Kenny was in the middle of the road, mumbling about death and fucktards and their crazy schemes when he heard it honk its horn at him. He had just enough time to shriek like a girl and run for his life before the truck flew by, leaving Kenny relatively unscathed on the other end of the sidewalk. Forgetting all dignity he might still have had, Kenny jumped into the air, yelled "Woo hoo!" at the top of his lungs, and sprinted off before anything else could kill him.

He would have gone to the Mole's house, but then decided that. The Gods of Ironic Death would not be able to resist a blow-torch induced death after he so desperately avoided it twice in one day.

So, he went home, put his old Broncos helmet on, wrapped himself in his thin blanket, and crawled under his bed. It was a tight fit. He was, after all, about to turn 18.

He stayed under there for a while, alternately feeling pathetic, paranoid, and scared shitless. After hours of watching the rats and cockroaches scurry by and feeling more stupid than anything else, he fell asleep.

Laying under his smelly mattress and sleeping the afternoon away, Kenny dreamed of Butters. He dreamed of the time when he and Butters went to the Middle Park mall on their very first date, back when Butters was still 'bi-curious'. He dreamt how Butters had been so nervous he had dropped all of his shopping bags every few minutes, simultaneously trying to hold them and rub his knuckles together. Kenny remembered how he took pity on his soon to be boyfriend, taking the bags and stealing a quick kiss from the blushing boy.

Kenny awoke with an ache in his heart and a wish in his head. He wished (not for the first time and never the last) that he wasn't suck a fucking whore. He crawled out from under the bed and roughly pulled the helmet off, chucking it at the far wall.

"I had thought for a moment you had at last died again," a cool voice said from the darkness.

Kenny would have screamed his lungs out like the pussy he secretly was if he hadn't awoken so fucking depressed. As it was, he only gasped slightly and turned as quick as he could to the barely visible form of the Mole.

"Fucking shit Christophe," Kenny said, clutching his heart lest he put himself into cardiac arrest. "You've got to stop doing that."

Christophe shrugged.

"I weel when I can no longer sneak up on you," he said as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "Or eef you can successfully catch me off guard."

"Deal," Kenny said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Christophe must have noticed Kenny's mood because he never missed anything, but he said nothing about it. He lifted his arm as if to grip Kenny's shoulder, but stopped mid-movement and turned back to the window.

"Come," he said, "Ze crème brulee eez done."

Kenny followed the Mole as he hopped out the window, feeling noisy and awkward by the perpetually silent Mole.

They walked in silence for a long while, listening to the nearly nonexistent whispers of their feet hitting the pavement. It took Kenny nearly the entire walk to notice that Christophe wasn't smoking like usual. When he asked about it, Christophe gave his usual response. He shrugged.

"I finished my last pack waiting for you," he said.

Kenny frowned.

"Why?"

"Don't ask stupeed questions," was his response.

Kenny could not for the life of him figure out why that would be a stupid question, and was forced to assume that Christophe had mis-translated it. Unless, of course, he just didn't want to answer said question because his answer would make him sound like a pussy.

Which would only make sense if said pussy response had been something along the lines of "I was worried about you, so I smoked my whole pack by accident."

By this time, Kenny was grinning like a fool at his own stupid assumptions and forgot about the booby trap Christophe had installed on the stairs to his porch. A bear trap suddenly clamped down around his right ankle with a surprisingly quiet crunch. Kenny had to employ all of his will power not to scream.

Instead, he whimpered quite pathetically as the searing pain shot through his body.

"Sheet Kenny," The Mole said, leaning against his door frame and looking almost bored. Almost. "Do you know 'ow long eet took me to fucking camouflage a fucking bear trap?"

Kenny would have laughed at this if he had not been in an excruciating amount of pain.

"Oh, I'm so sorry Christophe," he said in between his sharp pants and winces. "I...should have known—_fuck—_better than to walk-walk up your steps."

The Mole laughed in that weird, out-of-character way of his, pushed himself off of the doorway, and reopened the booby trap. Kenny pulled his mangled foot out with a grimace, wanting to die and get away from the pain for a few hours.

Then he wondered if that made him suicidal, which just got him depressed all over again.

Christophe hoisted Kenny up bodily when he saw Kenny wince as he tried to walk, and carried him inside as if it was the most normal (and easiest) thing in the world.

"Am I really that light?" Kenny asked as the Mole dropped him on his couch.

"Yes," he answered. Kenny pouted. "But do not feel bad. I have 'ad to carry dead fat old men much longer distances in much more dire circumstances. I have had practice."

"Oh. I guess that makes it okay then," Kenny said.

"Yes, and you are dangerously thin as well," the Mole said, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Kenny scowled at him.

The Mole pulled a first aid kit from underneath the sofa and set to work cleaning and wrapping Kenny's mangled ankle. Kenny watched him with a sort of morbid curiosity. After all, the only person who had ever really helped Kenny had been the school nurse, and even she stopped caring after the first half of his freshman year.

Kenny bit his lip, wondering at the enigma that was the Mole. On the one hand, he was a hole-digging, chain smoking, blaspheming son of a bitch who would have no problem killing you if it was for a fair price. But then there was also the person who cooked and watched cheesy French cartoons and cleaned Kenny's cuts when everyone else would have figured that just letting him die from infection would be easier.

Christophe went off to the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with their desserts. He collapsed onto the sofa next to Kenny, turning on the TV just in time to catch the last few minutes of Family Guy.

They ate mostly in silence, their food's sugary goodness sort of distracting Kenny from the pain in his ankle. After a few minutes, Kenny's mind unwillingly drifted back to thoughts of Butters.

They had started going out early on in their Sophomore year and had managed to last right up until Christmas of last year. It had been the best year and a half of Kenny's life. He thought they had fallen in love until Butters told him one day that they weren't working out and that they should see other people. Kenny thought that his heart might have been torn out from its place in his chest.

So, because he was grieving and about a few more Celine Dion songs away from going goth, Stan and Kyle had decided that the best way to pull him out of a depression was to get drunk. He then proceeded to get so plastered that it was a wonder he remembered anything from that night. What he did remember, however, was not at all pleasant.

They were at Red's house that night because she was having a party, and she always threw the most kick ass parties. Kenny remembered that it was Cartman who snuck the keg in and that it was Craig who had brought the hard liquors. He remembered attaching himself to a cute little blond girl when he was only slightly buzzed, then going up to Red's parent's room to fuck his pain away. It didn't work. After his sixth beer and his fifth shot of scotch, the night was passing by in a blur. He must have hooked up with some random guy at some point too, because the next thing he remembered was getting fucked—hard and fast and raw and dry to mask the pain in his heart—when Butters walked in on him. Kenny had been too drunk to notice him until Butters had dashed out of the room.

He learned from Kyle the next day that Butters had been looking for him to apologize. That Butters had changed his mind and that he had wanted Kenny back. Until...

God, Kenny was an idiot.

And he was fucking pathetic too. He could not believe that he was still hung up on _Butters._ After half a fucking year, he was still not over this. Kenny wanted to crawl into a hole and die again, but he knew it wouldn't do any good; he'd just come back, and this sort of wound could not be healed by a trip to Hell.

The spoon in Kenny's hand trembled slightly, and he set down his empty plate on the coffee table with a sigh.

"Hey Christophe?" he asked because he was tired of not talking about it. Don't get him wrong, Stan and Kyle had sort of tried to understand, but he knew that people in this town just didn't care enough about Kenny to help him out. They didn't really care about his problems despite how he was always helping others with their own. "Have you ever been in love?"

Christophe tore his eyes away from the television screen and studied him carefully. He brought the spoon to his lips quickly, as if forgetting it would not give him the nicotine he so desired.

"Love," he said at length, "Eez for cocksuckers who do not understand zat life is for ze loveless."

Kenny figured that he could have guessed the Mole would say that. It didn't help him feel any better though. Christophe tossed his spoon onto the table, where it landed neatly on his plate with a tiny clatter.

"And yes," he added as an after thought. "I have been."

Kenny raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Who was it?"

Kenny couldn't even imagine the Mole liking anyone beyond the cool indifference he had shown Kenny. He tried imagining the Mole being romantic and thoughtful, but it just seemed a little ridiculous. He suppressed the urge to laugh. Heh, Christophe sending someone a bouquet of flowers; as if.

"I doubt zat eez why you asked," he said, smirking slightly as well.

Which caused Kenny to remember why he did ask, which depressed him all over again.

"I guess you're right." He sighed. "It's just, I think I was, or I am, or could have been or some shit. In love, I mean. With...someone. But I fucked everything up and I don't know what to do about it anymore."

Christophe said nothing for a minute (about the same amount of time it would normally take him to take a drag off his cigarette, actually).

"What did you do zat makes you think so?"

"Well, Butters broke up with me, and when he came to find me I was getting ass-rammed by some total stranger."

"Ah," Christophe said in a tone of voice that suggested he was all-knowing. "Zen eet was not your fault; you only believe eet to be so."

"What?" Kenny asked in disbelief. "No dude. You've got it all backwards."

Did nicotine really supply the Mole with his intelligence? Kenny needed to find him a cigarette soon before he suffered from permanent brain damage—

"Sit back down, Stupeed," Christophe snapped. He looked as if he knew exactly what Kenny had been thinking and did not appreciate it very much. "And I do not have eet 'all backwards'. Look, deed he say why you broke up?"

Kenny frowned. He sat back down heavily, dropping his head into his hands.

"No," he answered weakly. "He just said that we weren't working out and that he wasn't happy and that he hoped we could still be friends. He didn't even—"

"He said 'ee was not happy?"

"Yeah."

Christophe brought his fingertips to his lips again, but when he realized they were empty, he just ran that hand through his hair.

"And zen 'ee wanted to get back togezzer with you?"

"Yeah, and I blew it. I—"

"You didn't blow it," Christophe said. "Butters did when he could not decide eef he wanted you or not."

"But—"

"Yes, I know," he cut in. "And eet did not help ze situation. But eef you had not been getting 'ass-rammed', as you so delicately put it, what do you theenk would have happened?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I was too drunk."

Again Christophe waited for a moment before he answered.

"Eef he was unhappy before, 'ee would have been unhappy ze second time."

Kenny was speechless. It made a lot of sense, and while the thought didn't exactly make him feel less shitty, it did help a little. Could it be possible that Kenny himself hadn't (directly) fucked up the best thing that had happened to him? His hopes rose for a second.

"But seriously Kenny," the Mole added, "Zis had to have been sometime last year. Stop being a pussy."

Kenny scowled.

"Fuck you Christophe." There was no real venom behind the swear, Kenny realized. He was too tired to really be insulting. He watched the commercial advertising Snacky S'mores without really listening to it. "Who did you fall in love with?"

Kenny realized that not having a cigarette was unsettling the Mole a lot. He couldn't seem to figure out what to do with his hands. Either that, or he was just very uncomfortable. Maybe it was a little of both.

"I don't theenk you would have known him," Christophe said, leaning back on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. "His name was Gregory."

The name brought back some vague memories of the war, Hell and Heaven, but nothing Kenny could really place a face to.

"Oh. Well, what happened?"

Christophe turned his piercing gaze back to Kenny, who suddenly felt as if his entire soul was being exposed.

"What happened?" he repeated bitterly. "Wendy Testaburger happened. Ever since zat beetch, Gregory has claimed to be a pussy-lover."

"Oh," Kenny said because anything else he could have said would have sounded hollow and inadequate.

Kenny didn't like Wendy much; it came with seeing her toy with Stan for much of their childhood. This just gave him another reason to think she was a self-centered bitch.

"Eet's late," Christophe said as he stood suddenly. "We should get to sleep before I kill ze nearest pigeon and fashion a cigarette from its intestines."

"Would that really work?" Kenny asked, making a face and following The Mole up the stairs.

He shrugged.

"Eet's not nearly as satisfying," he said.

Kenny imagined Christophe standing in the middle of some blood-soaked battlefield, leaning against his shovel with a mangled pigeon by his side and a crudely wrapped cigarette (that looked more like a bloody joint) in his hand.

"Oh, sick dude. Sick."

Christophe smirked.

"You were not ze one who smoked eet," he replied.

Kenny laughed because it was true. And because if he didn't laugh, he might actually have puked instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Standard disclaimers and warnings apply.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kenny knew something was wrong on the first day of school the second he opened his eyes that morning.

He awoke to the mouthwatering smell of what he knew must have been the chocolate crepes he won in the bet, but when Kenny went looking for Christophe, he couldn't find him anywhere. Kenny ate his crepes quickly (he knew the smell would inevitably attract the rest of his family, and there was no way in Hell he'd share those damned French pancakes with anyone).

Just as he finished the last crumbs of his breakfast, he heard the unmistakable sound of Stan honking the horn of his new Honda Hybrid from the front yard. He scrambled off to find his old shoes and his worn backpack before they left him, and he was forced to walk to school. He was abnormally quiet on the drive to school, still wondering about where the Mole could have gone off to, but he tried not to worry about it too much. He was sure he'd run into him at school at some point today. After all, who misses on the first day of school?

Apparently, the Mole does.

Kenny looked for him before and after each class. He even waited for him at the tiny park where he would normally smoke during lunch to no avail. Then he started to feel like some weirdo stalker and stopped, realizing that he had probably just stayed home sick or something. Kenny went back over to the cafeteria to his standard table, plopping himself down in his regular seat with a sigh.

He always sat across from Cartman and in between Butters and Stan. Admittedly, after his and Butters' messy breakup, he had moved over to the other end of the table, but after a while he felt as if enough time had passed to where he could at least pretend to be over it and sit in his normal place. Now, it was only slightly uncomfortable. Across from Butters sat Craig, with Tweek next to him and at the edge of the table, Jimmy. Right next to Butters sat Token and Clyde.

And that was their group, The South Park Kids. They were the last of the people from South Park Elementary who still really talked to each other. All the girls had gotten into drama during middle school and had stopped talking to each other, and the rest of the boys from their grade just sort of drifted off into their own little cliques. Kenny found that he didn't really mind. These were the only douchebags from South Park that he could actually stand (with the exception of Cartman, but he was just a given).

Kyle was sitting in his usual spot across from Stan, munching on some homemade latkes and reading over his new Economics syllabus. Stan was trying (in vain, of course) to gain the attention of his almost-boyfriend. But Kyle was the biggest (and hottest) nerd in all of Park County High, and he didn't even notice. Kenny decided to take pity on his friend and help him pull his almost-boyfriend out from behind his schoolwork.

"So Stan," Kenny said much louder than was strictly necessary, "Have you and Kyle told anyone yet that you two are so hot for each other that you spend breaks fucking in the Teacher's bathrooms?"

Stan sputtered, spilling the soda he'd been about to drink all over his tray of food. Around them, the whole table went silent. Stan glared at Kenny as if he wanted to kill him, but the effect was somewhat ruined with Dr. Pepper dripping down his chin.

"Don't be stupid dude," Kyle answered without looking up from the paper in his hands. "I mean, seriously. Have you ever _been_ in that bathroom? It's worse than ours. Why the fuck would we want to have sex there?"

"_Kyle!_"

"I fucking knew it!" Cartman said, jumping back away from the table and pointing at the two of them dramatically. "I knew the fucking Jew would warp your fragile hippie mind until you succumbed to his faggy sinful ways, Stan!"

"Hey dude, shut the fuck up."

Everyone turned, mildly shocked, to Craig, who had uttered the last statement. Beside him, Tweek blushed. Craig was the epitome of cool at school now; he was captain of the football team after Stan quit, but still managed to keep an aloofness that many found irresistible. All the girls (and some of the guys) agreed that he was sex on legs.

Everyone also knew he hadn't had a girlfriend in almost two years, and Kenny had always had a suspicion that it was because of a certain spastic blond boy at his side. Not that anyone believed him, that is. Everyone else was so sure of Craig's heterosexuality. He just had commitment issues, the girls all said, right before they would sigh longingly and whisper _I bet I could change that._

"Yeah dude," Stan said after the initial shock had worn off. He was blushing scarlet, but had a determined look on his face, just like he had over the summer when he hadn't wanted to tell Kenny about his relationship with Kyle. "If Kyle and I are going out, it's none of your business."

Finally, Kyle looked away from the paper in his hands to smile brightly at Stan. Stan flushed in a pleased sort of way in response.

"Aw, God Fucking Damn it!" Cartman exclaimed. "I'm being surrounded by them! Pretty soon we'll all catch the gay!"

"Dude, shut up," Kenny said, stealing some of his fries while he was still out of arms reach. "Gayness isn't contagious."

"Speak for yourself Kenny," Cartman said. "Remember, you used to be straight, and now look at you!"

Kenny flushed, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation Butters' eyes were leaving on the back of his head. Once again, he wished it was cold enough to wear his hooded parka. He smiled, hoping that no one sensed his sudden discomfort.

"I was never straight," he answered flippantly. Then to break the sudden tension, he added happily, "I just liked having sex. Still do, actually, with anything that moves."

"God dammit," Cartman sighed, his anger deflating. "I hate you Kenny."

Kenny smirked in response and the table around them laughed. For a moment Kenny thought that that would be the end of it, but of course, Cartman was an asshole, so he just couldn't let things go.

"Tweek dude, switch seats with me," he said after almost five minutes of relative calm.

Tweek jumped viciously, spilling coffee on his black shirt (he'd stopped wearing button-downs when girls had started telling him that he looked sexy with his shirt only half buttoned).

"Jesus Christ why!?!" he asked, tugging at his hair with one free hand.

"Because retard, I need to get away from the fags."

"Fuck you Cartman!" Kyle said, fully prepared to go Jew-bitch on him like normal now that he'd finished with his school business.

"No dude, seriously; I'm gonna go sit on the straight half of the table."

"Jesus Christ! That is way too much pressure!"

"Whatever Tweek," Cartman said, standing again. "Just move."

Tweek jumped out of his seat as if it had burned him, but before he could move, Craig's hand was grabbing his wrist.

"If you want to sit somewhere where you won't catch the fag," Craig said coolly, "then your best bet would be to switch places with Clyde."

Again everyone turned to watch Craig with amazement. Craig continued to eat his lunch as if he'd said nothing spectacular. He tugged Tweek back down into the seat by his side, the blond blushing furiously all the while. Another minute passed in silence.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean Craig?" Cartman finally asked.

"It means what it sounds like," Craig answered, who had still not let go of Tweek's shaking wrist. On the contrary, with a sideways glance at him, Craig slid his hand nonchalantly into Tweek's.

"Dude, I knew you were gay for Tweek!" Token exclaimed, breaking the sudden tension.

Craig rolled his eyes and continued to eat. Kenny guessed he was flipping them all off in his mind, since both of his hands were currently occupied. Cartman stood flabbergasted for a few more seconds, even when the conversations erupted around him again. Then, quite suddenly, he exploded.

"Fucking Meecrob! Am I the only one here that's still straight?"

"Hey, I'm not gay," Token answered, frowning.

"Yeah dude," Clyde agreed, taking a sloppy bite from his sandwich.

"Yes, I-I'm st-str-str-heterosexual as well...Eric," Jimmy stuttered.

Cartman looked as if he was about to say something, derogatory perhaps, when the bell rang and everyone scurried off. Kenny followed the crowds, not wanting to be left alone with a highly pissed off Cartman. After all, he hadn't died in over a month. As the cafeteria door closed behind him, Kenny thought he heard a string of foul and rather expected obscenities spill out of Eric Cartman's mouth. Kenny rolled his eyes and marveled at the predictability of his friends.

Almost all of his friends were as predictable as a pile of dusty old books. He only had one friend who he could honestly say was constantly surprising him. He was the same boy who had not shown up to class on the first day of school.

But really, if Kenny thought about it, he'd only really known Christophe for a couple of months, and they never really talked about anything of substance. Sure, Kenny told him about what it was like to die because he was one of the only people who had ever asked. And Christophe would explain to him why exactly God was 'ze biggest beetch of zem all' in great detail because Kenny was stupid enough to actually ask. But they never talked about anything of any real importance.

Just what constituted a conversation of 'any real substance', Kenny wasn't entirely sure he knew; he just figured he'd know it when he was having it.

Kenny thought about this for the rest of the day, hardly listening as his teachers repeated the same expectations and rules at him again and again. God, why was the first day of school such a waste of time?

Finally, the last bell sounded merrily throughout the hallways, and the students all rushed out of the building, eager that their first day of school was at last over. Kenny followed with only mild reluctance. He knew what was awaiting him at home, and he didn't particularly want to be there just yet.

Kenny went to the Mole's house after school that day, hoping that he was just sick on the first day of school. His hopes had been dashed when his mother explained to him that Christophe had not yet come home from school.

"'Owever, you are welcome to wait for 'im 'ere," she had said, and Kenny had politely declined.

Somehow, he knew that The Mole might need an alibi later on tonight, and an excuse for why he didn't come home later that night as well. Kenny sighed and went home, inexplicably unnerved.

Kenny knew all about Christophe's..._hobby;_ he wasn't a complete idiot. Kyle had once mentioned how they had hired him to help save Terrance and Phillip one time when he had been dead. The prospect had sounded dangerous, but The Mole had apparently accepted the assignment readily, as if he'd gotten much worse...assignments before. So where ever Christophe was, there was a high probability of it having some element of danger involved.

Kenny hated danger. He figured it would be pretty much obvious why, but he also hated it when other people got themselves into it. After all, no one else knew about the stupid elevator back up to Earth, did they? If someone Kenny knew died because they were being as stupid as he was, they wouldn't know that they could just come back up. For all intents and purposes, they'd be gone.

And Kenny didn't like the idea of his friends getting lost in the fiery chasm that was Hell; not when he himself could navigate through the place so easily.

But then again, he really shouldn't be worried. If Kenny had been dying for mundane reasons for the last decade, Christophe had been not-dying in very dangerous ways for just as long. He knew what he was doing. So Kenny really shouldn't worry.

Really.

He was telling himself that even as he paced around his room late into the night, checking his curtain-less windows every ten minutes to see if any shadows would grace him with his presence. Eventually though, he remembered that tomorrow was only Tuesday, and would be the first day of actual lectures and work at school. At four-ten, he collapsed into bed, feeling the anxiety and dread pool in his stomach uncomfortably.

With a sigh, he shut his eyes and forced himself to go to sleep. He was awoken less than two hours later by an unmistakable voice.

"Sheet. Fucking sheet."

Kenny sat up, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands and trying to process what exactly was happening. The early morning predawn light had trickled its way into his bedroom, so by the weak gray light, he could just make out the figure of Christophe sitting cross legged on the floor by his bed.

"Christophe?" he asked wearily. "The fuck happened to you?"

The Mole did indeed look worse for wear. His black shirt looked damp with what Kenny sincerely hoped was just sweat and mud, but doubted that was really all it was. His dark cargo pants were torn and dirty, and Kenny could clearly see the dark blood oozing through the fabric.

"Ambush," he muttered simply, almost to himself. "Ze beetches thought zey could outsmart Ze Mole." He laughed in a way that Kenny had never heard him laugh before. It was humorless, cold, cruel and not at all like the person Kenny knew. "Zey will not be so foolish next time."

"Christophe, what are you talking about? Where were you yesterday?"

The Mole chose to ignore him in favor of treating his wounds. He pulled a long strip of gauze from one of his many pockets and roughly started wrapping his left forearm. Kenny hadn't noticed where most of the blood had been coming from before, but now he realized that a long, jagged cut ran up the length of his forearm just a little to the left of where the main artery would normally be. Kenny visibly paled. When The Mole was done, he pulled a cigarette out of somewhere and lit it with only slightly trembling fingers.

Kenny, not knowing what else to do, pulled himself out of bed and opened his window. The sun had fully risen by now, and its glowing light burned Kenny's sleep deprived brain.

Fuck, if Christophe hadn't shown up, Kenny probably could have gotten a full four hours of sleep instead of a measly two (five if he skipped first period). But then again, if he hadn't shown up, where could he have gone? Surely not home, not in the state he was in, nor at this time of night...or morning. And all of Christophe's mercenary friends had gone back to France in July. Did he trust anyone else enough to barge into their houses, even if it was to clean himself up?

"What eez going through zat mind of yours now, Kenny?" he asked from his spot on the floor.

Kenny turned and watched as he exhaled slowly, letting out a cloud of smoke tentatively. The Mole winced, and Kenny wondered if he might have any broken ribs too.

"Nothing," he lied. "Just trying to figure out if I should be mad at you for waking me up or worried."

The Mole snorted and laid back fully, using his arms as pillows and staring up at the ceiling. When he turned to face Kenny again, he could see some of the coldness beginning to melt away from the edges of his eyes. Kenny released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Suddenly, Christophe smiled, and his dark brown eyes lightened instantly, as if a dark veil had been lifted from them.

"Eet wasn't a difficult assignment," Christophe said at length. He sat up and stretched, trying (and failing) to hide a wince. Kenny bit his lip to keep from rushing to his side and fussing over his friend. Somehow, he didn't think Christophe would appreciate it much. "I went to ze Denver prison to help some beetch escape, but once I did, ze fucking cocksucker tried to fucking kill me. Said it was ze plan all along."

The cigarette shook in his hand slightly, and a scowl darkened his features again.

"Don't worry zough, mon ami," he said quietly. Kenny didn't like the way his tone of voice made his blood run cold. "I'll get zat _enculé_ who set me up. He'll be fucking sorry he fucked with Ze Mole."

Kenny felt the silence stretch around them after that pronouncement. Suddenly, he was unsure of himself around this side of The Mole he'd never seen before. This was the person who showed up at school; this was the ruthless killing machine. Kenny sat down at the edge of his bed, watching his old alarm clock quietly. It was only 7:45, at least thirty minutes until Stan normally picked him up for school. Kenny felt the quiet loom around them again, wrapping itself around them like a thick blanket and suffocating him. Kenny breathed deeply, hoping for his sudden claustrophobia to pass.

Five minutes and one cigarette later, Christophe finally sighed. He left Kenny's room without a word, and Kenny watched him, unsure if he was supposed to follow or if Christophe had decided to leave entirely. When he heard someone sifting through the kitchen, however, he smiled to himself.

"Kenny," he heard Christophe call a few minutes later, and he quickly scampered into the kitchen.

"You didn't have to make me breakfast dude," he said. _Not after you almost died last night, _he added silently.

The Mole shrugged and flipped a crepe (blueberry this time, Kenny noted) in the air.

"Eet helps me relax," he answered.

"Oh." He watched Christophe cook for a few minutes in silence. Then, "Dude, where did you put all of that shit?"

He motioned to the now empty bowl of batter and the small carton of fresh blueberries. Christophe smirked.

"Don't you check your fridge?"

"No," Kenny answered automatically, frowning as he walked to the other side of the kitchen to do just that. "Not anymore. I already know that there's nothing in there, so what would be the fucking point—oh."

For when Kenny did open his refrigerator, he saw it packed with all sorts of fruits, vegetables, cheeses and various drinks. For a second, he was completely stunned.

"Apparently, ze rest of your family theenks along zose same lines."

"Shit dude," Kenny said. It was all he could think of to say.

"Whatever beetch," Christophe answered, his lips curved up into a half-smile. "Get over here and eat your breakfast before we're late to school."

"Right, school," he said, still slightly shocked at seeing his fridge so full of food.

The last time he'd opened the fridge door, there had been an empty beer bottle and a pair of his dad's old socks. Who could blame him for being depressed at that sort of sight? Well, whatever, he thought. He grabbed the plate that Christophe offered him and inhaled his breakfast in record time. Minutes later, he heard Stan honking at him to get the fuck outside already. Kenny jumped up, looking around for his shoes.

"Do you need a ride to school Christophe?" he asked, but the Mole only raised an eyebrow in response.

"I would not assume to ask your friends for a ride," he answered.

"No dude, it's only Stan and Kyle," he answered. "I'm sure they'd be fine with it."

Before Christophe had a chance to respond, Kenny grabbed his worn backpack and rushed outside, assuming that Christophe had followed him.

"Yo dudes," Kenny said when he approached the car.

"Hey Kenny," Kyle yawned.

Stan only nodded sleepily in response.

"Hey dudes, is it okay if we give Christophe a ride to school today?"

"Who?" Stan asked.

"Christophe," Kenny repeated. "The Mole."

"Oh, yeah, sure."

Kenny beamed.

"Why would he need a ride though?" Kyle asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because," Kenny answered. "He made me breakfast."

Stan and Kyle exchanged a look that deeply unsettled Kenny, but before he could ask them anything, Kenny heard something revving loudly behind his house. Seconds later, Christophe zoomed by on a black motorcycle.

"Doesn't look like he needs a ride," Kyle said after a second.

Kenny frowned. He wondered how Christophe had managed to ride that thing all the way from Denver looking like he did last night and not get pulled over. Or pass out from blood loss. Then he shrugged, figuring that people had gotten away with weirder.

"Get a fucking helmet, roadkill!" Kenny called after the Mole, beaming.

Christophe took both hands off the handlebars to flip Kenny off. Kenny imagined the Mole smirking in his usual way and laughed. He climbed into Stan's back seat and laid down, using his backpack as a pillow.

"Dude, harsh," Stan said as they drove off to school.

"What do you mean?" Kenny asked with his eyes closed (after all, he'd only gotten two freaking hours of sleep).

"That's not cool dude," Stan continued. "What if he actually crashes?"

Kenny laughed, sitting up and leaning through the space between Stan and Kyle's seats. Both Stan and Kyle stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.

"Dude," Kyle said in that way of his that explained everything. Kenny frowned.

"What?" he asked. "He's the one who's always telling me to get a more effective helmet and shit."

"For what?" Stan asked.

"Oh, you know," Kenny said, resting his head on the palms of his hands and turning his big blue eyes to Stan. "To keep me alive."

Stan and Kyle exchanged a glance, one of those Super Best Friend looks that made it seem like they were having a telepathic conversation. Kenny hated it when they did that; it made him feel like a stranger that they needed to exclude from their conversation.

"Keep you alive?" Kyle finally repeated as if the idea had never crossed his mind. "Why would he do that?"

Kenny shrugged as they pulled into the parking lot. He jumped out of the car and swung his bag over his shoulders.

"I don't think Christophe likes it too much when I kick the bucket," he said happily, watching as Stan clasped Kyle's hand in his own with a sheepish grin.

Kyle gave his best friend a quick kiss before turning back to Kenny. They began walking to class, Kenny walking backwards and ahead of Stan and Kyle to talk to them.

"It probably has something to do with the fact that he died back in elementary school," Kyle said.

Kenny stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes wide.

"Christophe _died?_" he asked.

"Well, yeah dude," Stan said. "Cartman accidentally got a bunch of guard dogs to kill him. He didn't tell you?"

Kenny shook his head, still unable to believe it.

"No," he said, a frown marring his features. "No, he didn't."

"Oh," Stan said, shrugging. "Well, whatever dude. Kyle dude, you've got second with me right? I need to ask you about something."

And just like that, Stan and Kyle buried themselves into their own little world. Kenny stood in his place, watching his two best friends walk off as if he didn't exist. Kenny frowned. From somewhere behind him, Kenny caught a whiff of smoke. He stiffened.

"Hello Christophe," he said quietly, unsure where his sudden anger was coming from.

Kenny took a deep breath and turned around. The Mole looked much the same as he did that morning, the dark bloodstains on his pants standing out starkly in the daylight. His black shirt was caked with dirt and dried blood, and the bandage he had used to wrap his forearm had bled through almost completely. His shovel was strapped to his back as usual, its dirtied tip poking out over his left shoulder, and an unlit cigarette was tucked behind his ear.

Amazingly, the Mole had a small grin on his face; not a smirk, or a sneer, but a genuine grin. Kenny was momentarily distracted by the way a simple upturn of his lips could brighten the hardened assassin's face so drastically.

"Salut Kenny," he said softly, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and searching his pockets for a lighter.

"Don't 'salut Kenny' me Mole," Kenny said, remembering that he had been inexplicably upset earlier and trying his hardest to remain that way. "Why didn't you ever tell me that you've _died_ before?"

Christophe's expression darkened. He pulled the still unlit cigarette from his mouth and buried it deep into one of his pockets. His gaze was burning into Kenny's again, giving him the feeling that those chocolate colored eyes were staring straight into his soul.

"I didn't think eet was important," the Mole finally said.

"You didn't think it was important?" Kenny repeated, a little louder than he'd intended to. "You didn't think it was important? I think it's very important! I can't believe you didn't tell me something like that!"

Christophe looked away, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Vaguely, Kenny noticed that they were beginning to draw a crowd, onlookers that were probably eager to see the Mole spill Kenny's blood. After all, no one talked to the Mole like that.

"Just drop it Kenny," he said in that dangerous voice of his, the one made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Kenny, however, would not be deterred.

"Fuck you Christophe," he said just as slowly. A ripple of whispers spread out through the crowd like a pebble dunked in water. "This is important to me. I want to know why you didn't think it was important."

"I assumed your friends would have told you," he said.

"They're assholes Christophe!" Kenny answered, his voice shrill. He was glad for a moment that Stan and Kyle had gone off on their own. "They don't even think of me as a friend! I'm just a fucking prop to those guys!They don't tell me shit, and you know what? I'm completely fine with that! I love those assholes, but they couldn't give a fucking rat's ass about me. But Christophe, I thought—"

But Kenny couldn't finish his statement. What had he expected anyway? Okay, so the Mole wasn't Stan or Kyle, but Kenny had thought he was at least a friend. But Kenny really didn't know _anything_ about the Mole, now that he thought about it. Kenny didn't even know Christophe's fucking last name for fuck's sake! He probably couldn't trust Kenny enough with that kind of information. Kenny had thought that someone finally might have actually started to give a shit about him, but apparently he was mistaken.

Kenny felt bitter disappointment pool in the pit of his stomach, and he looked down at his ratty shoes, swallowing past a sudden lump that had formed in his throat. He felt very small suddenly, as if bigger and more important things were zooming past him and there was nothing really he could do about it. He was getting dizzy.

Then he felt a pair of rough fingertips lift his chin up gently, and he was looking into Christophe's eyes again. The dizziness abruptly stopped. When had the Mole moved? He was standing much closer than just a few seconds ago, but that was the Mole for you. Silent and sturdy and rough and gentle and dangerous and safe all in the same sentence. Kenny searched his expression, marveling at the way the sharp angles of the Mole's face had softened ever so slightly. Christophe's face was rugged in a way that Kenny's could never hope to be. His face was all big eyes and full lips that made him look more innocent than he really was, nothing like the man standing before him now.

"Kenny," the Mole said in a whisper, as if afraid someone might hear the emotion in his voice. Kenny did hear it, and his breath caught. "Kenny, I—"

The bell rang.

"Sheet," Christophe mumbled as the crowd around them burst apart and hurried off in all directions.

Kenny took a deep breath and stepped away from the Mole to clear his head.

"We'll talk about this later Christophe," he said quietly.

The Mole nodded, his features already darkening. He searched his pockets for his cigarette and walked off, shooting glares at anyone who got in his way. Kenny watched him leave for nearly a full minute before remembering that he needed to get to class himself.

Lunch was the same as always. Kyle got into an argument with Cartman, and Clyde went off to sit with some blond girl on the other side of the cafeteria. Stan was trying to keep Kyle from punching Cartman in the jaw (and failing miserably). Craig was talking to Tweek quietly, who was waving his arms about wildly and gesturing to his coffee mug. Jimmy was telling jokes to a crowd of fans in the lunch line, and Token had yet to arrive. Kenny ate his school lunch in silence, staring at his milk carton intently and hoping that no one had noticed or heard about what had happened earlier that day.

"Oh hey you guys," Token said, rushing to the table and looking excited. "I'm having a party next weekend, you all gonna come?"

"Fuck yeah dude," Craig said over the babble around them. Tweek twitched sharply and muttered something under his breath that made Craig laugh.

"Why are you having a party Token?" Kyle asked, momentarily distracted from his Cartman-beating. Cartman took the opportunity to scramble up from the floor and straighten his clothes nonchalantly.

"It's my birthday!" Token replied, smiling. "The big one dudes; I'm finally turning 18 next Wednesday."

"Sweet dude!" Stan said.

"Yeah, totally. Hey where'd Clyde go again? I need to tell him too."

Stan pointed to the other side of the cafeteria, and Token rushed off to tell his friend of the awesomeness happening next weekend.

Kenny sighed. It had already been a really long day; all he wanted to do was crawl into his hole of a room and die. Either that, or fall asleep for a couple hours.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of useless information and idle chit chat. Both his science and his math teachers turned out to be psychopathic hardasses, and had given him tons of homework. So, instead of locking himself in his room to sleep like his exhausted body yearned for him to do, he was forced to puzzle over 'last-year reviews' that his teachers had given them to figure out how much the class still remembered.

Last year, Kenny had the unfortunate problem of having math right after shop class, so he had almost always been out of class dead. There wasn't much that he remembered learning. Which was probably why he had absolutely no fucking clue what half of his homework was asking him to solve.

But if he was being completely honest with himself, it wasn't just his homework that was keeping him up. Secretly, he was hoping that a certain French boy would show up at his window that afternoon to explain to him everything. All Kenny really wanted was an explanation after all.

He wasn't really angry with Christophe, not in the way he had been that morning. It was just that he was taken by surprise, and The Mole's cool, indifferent attitude towards his apparent death had just made Kenny feel horrible. It was bad enough he didn't trust Kenny enough to tell him those kind of things, but he had had the nerve to make it seem as if it wasn't a big deal! As if Kenny had been overreacting!

Ha, as if. Kenny hardly ever overreacted. Well, except if you counted, like, all the time. But of course, Kenny didn't.

It turned out that Kenny waited in vain that night. He ended up falling asleep on his carpet where he had been doing his homework, using his book as a pillow. He had a strange dream about graveyards and tunnels that he couldn't quite remember when he awoke, but Kenny didn't really mind. He was more concerned about the pair of dirty combat boots that were currently inches away from his sleepy, disoriented face. It didn't take him long to connect the boots to a pair of feet, and those feet to a name.

"Christophe?" Kenny asked sleepily.

"Not quite," a strange voice replied.

Kenny had just enough time to sit up and squint through the darkness before something large and heavy hit him roughly on the side of the head. He vaguely wondered why someone would wake him up just to knock him out again, but the blinding pain was distracting him from the answer. After maybe a second, his brain decided that no, it could not in fact function after a blow like that, and he passed out.

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**A/N: **Oh look, something's actually happening now; how strange. I thought this was just gonna be one of those stories that don't go anywhere... Hmm.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer/Warnings:** same as for the other chapters.

**A/N: **This chapter is actually a little longer than I had originally planned. When I started it, it was supposed to just be like the torture scene and sort of like filler space until I could get to Token's party, but then (like with most of my plans), it didn't quite turn out that way. Oh well. Also, sorry for the delay, I was sick and I was without the Internet for like a week :c.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kenny wasn't sure how long he had been out cold; all he knew was that when he awoke, he was in an old empty warehouse of some sort and was tied to an uncomfortable metal chair, his hands strapped to the armrests securely. The closest object to him was an old wooden worktable with various knives, hammers, saws and corkscrews scattered across the top of it. Everything else was swathed in darkness, so he couldn't really be sure if he was alone or not. Still, Kenny felt the color drain from his face. Whatever was about to happen, he could bet that it would end up hurting.

As he was contemplating the various ways he could die and not die whilst trying to escape, a loud clanging sounded from a darkened corner of the warehouse. Light streamed in for a few seconds, then was promptly extinguished again as several large and menacing silhouettes came in through the newly opened doorway and closed it behind them with an ominous bang.

Someone must have flipped a switch because suddenly, harsh, artificial light flooded the place, and Kenny was met with three ugly men, all of them staring at him as if he were a piece of rotten meat.

"So, Mr. McCormick," the ugliest of them said.

Kenny recognized him instantly as the voice in his room earlier and wondered how a man as large as that could sneak around at all. Kenny was forced to attribute that strange anomaly to his deep, _deep_ sleeping habits. Kenny smiled at the ugly man, despite the panic that was starting to choke him.

"Hey dudes," Kenny said. "You need something or what?"

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. The ugliest of them (whom Kenny had assumed must be their leader or some shit) smirked in a very disturbing manner and nodded to one of the others. The shortest of the group, who incidentally had a rather large bald spot at the top of his scalp, nodded and punched Kenny square in the jaw.

"Yes, we do need something from you, boy," the leader said ignoring the way Kenny winced and squinted his eyes shut. "We need you to tell us everything you know about The Mole."

Kenny swallowed, suddenly very glad that he didn't know shit about Christophe. He opened his eyes tried to smile, but the right hook to the jaw distorted it until it looked more like he was grimacing in pain. Which, coincidentally, he was.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Kenny said weakly.

Mr. Balding Midget punched him again, this time in the stomach, causing the wind to get knocked out of him. He gasped and sputtered for a few seconds, praying that he didn't die of asphyxiation. Somehow, he didn't think that letting these bastards know he couldn't 'die' would help his situation. He suddenly had thoughts of being tortured to death, only to reawaken to be tortured to death again, and again and again until—

A third punch, this one to his left eye abruptly stopped his train of thought.

"That's funny," Mr. Ugly said, a hideous smile distorting his features. Suddenly he frowned, as if tired of playing around. "I'm going to ask you again, and this time, I want the truth."

"Dude, I already told you," Kenny said between sharp breaths. Something wet and warm was pooling in his mouth, and when he spit, he saw that it was his blood. He was sure bruises were already beginning to sprout on his jaw and around his eye too, but like Hell Kenny was going to sell out a friend. "I've got no fucking clue what the fuck you want from me."

Mr. Ugly frowned. He nodded to the last of them, a lanky, skeletal man with long, greasy black hair.

"Get the hammer," he said. The other man sneered and obeyed. Ugly turned back to Kenny with one of those creepy smiles on his face. "Don't play stupid with me kid. We fucking followed him to your house last night! Now, if you don't tell us what we want to know, you'll be very sorry. Don't think we won't fuck you up just because you're a kid, bitch."

Kenny would have laughed if Mr. Greasy Hair hadn't chosen at that moment to slam the hammer down on his left hand. Instead, Kenny chose the more practical response and screamed. He was sure that damned hammer broke several of his stupid finger bones.

"You don't scare me, cocksucker," Kenny said through clenched teeth.

Mr Ugly growled and punched Kenny again, clearly unsatisfied.

"Get him to talk," he said, and left the room without another word.

Greasy Hair and Balding Midget exchanged a quick glance before shrugging and turning as one to the work table. Kenny got the sudden feeling that it was going to be a long night.

The hours passed by in a haze of pain and slight annoyance for Kenny. Greasy and Baldy knew how to keep a guy alive even after hours of gruesome and incredibly painful torture. Kenny was sure he passed out at least twice, but every time that happened, one of those bastards would merely pour water down his throat until he choked and was awoken again. It was worse than even his first fucking trip to Hell.

Kenny was slumped against his bindings, not entirely sure why he was protecting someone who didn't even trust him when his luck finally began to change.

"Hey kid," Baldy whispered when Greasy wandered off somewhere. "Kid, why are you doing this to yourself?"

Kenny lifted his head up weakly and amazingly got his eyebrow to raise incredulously. Kenny tried to control his ragged breathing, which resulted in him coughing wetly. Baldy set down the bloody corkscrew he had just used on Kenny's thigh and sighed.

"I'm not gonna lie to you; Arnie's fucking insane. He'd have no problem killing you to find out even a little bit about The Mole. Just tell him anything, and we'll let you go. Seriously kid, you're only like what? 18? I don't want to have to fucking kill you to get to this asshole mercenary."

So Ugly had a name? Interesting. And what kind of name was 'Arnie' anyway? It was even more white-trash than his own name. Kenny took a deep, shuddering breath.

"And what would you do when you found C-The Mole?" he asked, catching himself before he gave away Christophe's name.

The guy shrugged.

"What do you care? That guy's bad business, trust me."

Kenny snorted. He couldn't help it. Baldy actually had the audacity to criticize Christophe? After he had spent _hours_ torturing Kenny? After he had just ripped open a part of Kenny's thigh with a corkscrew? That was rich.

"I'd choose him over you any day, Baldy," Kenny said.

Baldly frowned at him, probably thinking that Kenny had gone delirious from the blood loss. Which might have been true; he had lost a shitload of blood. It was pooling around his feet, seeping into his socks through the holes in his shoes. It was a strange sensation, but one Kenny was suddenly glad to have. It reminded him that he could still feel things other than pain.

Kenny wasn't sure when Baldy had left, but he must have because suddenly he had a small flashlight and was flashing light into his eyes randomly, as if checking for something.

"You're gonna need to take a rest," Baldy said quietly, as if afraid Greasy or Ugly might hear him. "If you don't want to talk, then we'll have to knock you out until you're strong enough for more."

Kenny wanted to tell him that he didn't think he'd ever be strong enough for anymore, but at that moment he was distracted by a flash of dizziness that left him disoriented again. Baldy turned quickly when a strangled cry suddenly rang out through the building, cold and sharp as any metal instrument now lying in the splashes of Kenny's blood all around them. Baldy furrowed his brow and stood, heading in the direction of the sound.

"I'll just stay here then," Kenny called after him, suddenly happy that he had enough energy to be sarcastic.

Baldy sneered at him and soon disappeared behind the only visible door. Kenny spent several minutes in silence, listening to his oddly slow heartbeat and wondering if his dizziness meant that he might at last be dying.

Then he heard someone yell out "_oh fuck!_" followed by what sounded like an odd shower of bullets. Several loud, unidentifiable clanging sounds followed, and then silence.

The door slowly creaked open, and Kenny was met with quite possibly the most beautiful fucking sight he'd ever laid his eyes on.

Christophe, in all his French mercenary glory, was standing there, silhouetted against the doorway and looking like some kind of vengeful guardian angel, a large gun hanging loosely at his side. If Kenny hadn't been so tired, he would have found that description to be terribly ironic. Instead of laughing about it, he smiled weakly, knowing he was finally safe with Christophe around.

"Kenny, sheet."

Kenny heard the Mole as if he'd been submerged underwater, faint and far away and kind of distorted. And then Kenny was sure his blood loss was causing hallucinations because Christophe was actually running towards him and kneeling in the ocean of blood that turned Kenny's chair into his own little private island. He dropped the gun with a loud clatter and placed his hand gently on Kenny's cheek, wiping some dirt, grime and blood off his cheekbone with his thumb.

The Mole didn't say a word; he only quirked the corner of his lips up as what looked like relief washed over his face. Then he pulled out a small pocket knife and cut through Kenny's bindings quickly, catching Kenny as he slumped forward, unable to support himself in the state he was in.

"My fucking hero, dude," Kenny whispered against his chest.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reveling in the way Christophe's smoky odor blocked out the metallic smell of blood. Kenny felt himself be hoisted up, and he automatically wrapped his arms around Christophe's neck weakly, burying his face into the mercenary's shirt. Kenny felt himself drifting off, whether to sleep or death he wasn't sure. Either way, the welcoming darkness seemed to be offering him a temporary escape from his pain, and he was willing to take it.

"Don't fall asleep Kenny," the Mole murmured quietly. "Kenny? Dammit Kenny, talk to me."

"Why does it matter?" he mumbled, keeping his eyes closed. His body was still throbbing in pain, the sharp sensations waning and swelling with each thump of his heartbeat. He pressed his cheek into Christophe's chest again, ignoring the tenderness in his bruised face. "What's the worst that could happen? I'll die? Well whoop-de-freaking-doo, nothing special there. Besides, I heal faster when I come back from being dead."

"You're not going to die Kenny."

Kenny opened his eyes just in time for him to see the bodies of Ugly, Baldy and Greasy lying on the floor of some tiled room that Kenny hadn't seen before. Christophe's bloody shovel was leaning innocently against a door on the other side of the room. He grimaced and closed his eyes again, not entirely sure he wanted to know how Christophe managed to overpower all three of them.

"Just humor me zen," Christophe said gently.

"Fine," Kenny sighed. "Why didn't you tell me that you've died before?"

"You're still on zat?"

"Yes, I am."

The Mole was silent for a while. Kenny could hear his footsteps echoing wherever they were. He wondered if Christophe knew the warehouse from a past mission, or if he was relying on his instincts to help them escape.

"I meant to," he finally responded. Kenny felt him kick something loudly, and a rush of cool air swept against his face. It seemed the Mole had led them out into the darkness, for which Kenny was grateful. The chilly South Park night was soothing against his frayed nerve endings. "I would have asked you about eet ze first night we met, but ze ozzers... Zey didn't believe me when I told zem about my death, nor yours. Afterwards, eet just seemed like an awkward thing to ask."

"Oh," Kenny mumbled, not bothering to lift his face away from Christophe's warmth. He was rather getting used to his smoky-gunpowder smell. Suddenly Kenny wondered if it was just the Mole's clothes that carried that particular scent or if it permeated off the Mole himself. Even more intriguing, did Christophe _taste_ like cigarettes and gunpowder? If Kenny were to lift his head up a few inches or so and run his tongue up the Mole's neck...

But Kenny really shouldn't be thinking about that, since he had apparently tuned out and Christophe had continued to talk. Vaguely, he thought that he really should be paying attention.

Yet it was just so hard.

Try as he might, Kenny couldn't quite get his brain to cooperate with him. He felt sort of waterlogged, like his brain was floating around in his skull lazily and refusing to take any kind of orders. It didn't really help that his entire body had suddenly stopped aching and was replaced by a buzzing numbness. He couldn't even hear all that well anymore. He knew the Mole was talking, but he sounded faint and far away, like he was speaking a different language to someone else entirely. Kenny had to tighten his hold on Christophe's neck just to be sure he wasn't floating around in limbo or deep space or some shit like that. Christophe shook him gently in response and said something echo-ey that Kenny didn't quite understand. He opened his eyes again and found that the world had suddenly become much more fuzzy around the edges. So he sighed and let his eyelids drop again, finding it much too much trouble to keep them open.

At this point, Kenny was pretty sure he was dying. He had felt like this once before, the only other time he'd had a drawn out death. Back then, it was an incurable disease that slowly diminished his strength until all he could do was lay in a hospital bed and feel his organs swimming around in his body. This time, it seemed he would die in his friend's arms, listening to the soothing lilt of his voice without really hearing what the other boy was trying to tell him. Well, at least this time he wasn't alone.

Finally, Kenny's brain decided that it was finally time to go, and darkness enveloped him. He fell into it willingly, reassured by the fact that when he awoke, he would be pain free.

Sadly, that was not the case.

He awoke some time later, still in incredible amounts of pain. And he was hot too, burning up actually. He lifted his arms weakly, intending to run them through his hair, but there was a heavy blanket on him that was preventing his arms from moving.

Fuck, but he was tired. And weak too, he realized, if he couldn't even gather up the strength to shove the suffocating blankets off his body. Kenny sighed.

Then a door opened, and a small beam of light crept into the room. In an instant he recognized the room to be Christophe's, and the Mole in question walked into the room quietly.

"'Ow are you feeling?" he asked, yanking down the quilt surrounding Kenny when he noticed the blond's flushed face.

"Like shit just beat my face in with a crowbar," Kenny said, trying to smile.

Christophe laughed and took a seat at the foot of the bed, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and playing with it anxiously. Kenny noticed that he had re-wrapped his own forearm, and he wondered how Christophe had managed to carry Kenny out of the warehouse with a wound that had probably re-opened.

"You didn't die," he said quietly, not meeting Kenny's eyes.

"That's a shame," Kenny said ironically. "I was hoping to look better than roadkill for Token's party next Saturday."

Christophe stared at him incredulously, before cocking an eyebrow and turning away to inspect his wall.

"You 'ave just been tortured, and you're worried about some party?"

"Well, yeah dude," he said, as if it explained everything.

Christophe sighed.

"Kenny, you are 'opeless."

"Aww man, don't say that," Kenny said, smirking weakly. "If I'm hopeless, how the hell am I supposed to get better by next weekend? If I'm hopeless, then I've got nothing going for me."

The Mole finally turned his dark eyes back to Kenny, furrowing his brow as if contemplating something serious.

"You'll be fine," he said quietly.

"Are you crazy dude?" Kenny asked. He gestured to his mangled face, currently half covered in either swollen bruises or bandages. "I feel and probably look like I was just run over by a fucking train! And believe me, I know what that feels like from past experiences."

Christophe raised one of his dark eyebrows again.

"You've been hit by a train before zen?"

Kenny looked away, a small blush spreading over the unbruised parts of his face. Which was strange, actually, to say the least. Kenny was never embarrassed when he mentioned his deaths; nine times out of ten, he was proud of them.

"Like seven times, actually," he said in a small voice. Kenny hesitated before asking his next question, unsure of how the Mole might react to it. "How did you? Die, I mean."

The Mole stared at him for a long time before answering, a strange expression on his face. If Kenny had to take a guess at what it was, he'd say it was somewhere between annoyance and empathy. Kenny sighed and looked away again, playing with a loose thread in the bedspread.

"I can understand if you don't want to tell me dude," he said, sounding more tired than he actually felt. "You value your privacy, and like shit dude, I _totally_ get that. I'm not a complete idiot. I understand how important it is for you to stay invisible to dickholes like the ones who kidnapped me and—"

"Guard dogs," Christophe said, stopping Kenny mid-tirade. "Ten years ago next month. A rescue mission zat went sour. Eet is ze only mission to date I have ever failed, and is ze reason why I work alone."

"Oh," Kenny said. He tried to sit up, but all the blood rushed to his head, so he fell back onto the Mole's pillows heavily. "Fuck."

Christophe was watching Kenny critically again, fingering the unlit cigarette in his hand.

"I 'ave morphine," he said slowly, watching Kenny's reaction. "Eef you'd like, I can give eet to you. I would have before you came to, but zen I remembered you have an addictive personality, and decided to wait."

Kenny pouted.

"I do not have an addictive personality!" he said. "Unless you mean that people become addicted to spending time with me, in which case, I'd have to agree with you."

The Mole snorted and rolled his eyes.

"First off, eef I had meant zat, I would have said you have charisma," Christophe said, the corners of his lips turning up into a smile. "Of which you have none. And Kenny, seriously. Do I even 'ave to explain myself? You got addicted to sniffing cat pee."

Kenny flushed.

"How do you know about that? It was like, in elementary school!"

Christophe smirked and went over to his desk, rummaging around in the drawer until he pulled out a syringe and a small glass vial.

"_N'oublies pas, mon ami;_ don't forget," he said as he filled the syringe with the clear liquid. "I'm a mercenary. My knowledge eez vast."

Kenny rolled his eyes as Christophe injected him with what Kenny had to assume was morphine. In an instant his pain seemed to melt away. Kenny sighed in relief and closed his eyes.

"What time is it?" he asked, already half-asleep.

"Two-thirty in ze afternoon," the Mole said. "Wednesday. Get some sleep, Kenny. Tomorrow you'll 'ave to go to school again."

Kenny pouted with his eyes closed, but nodded his head in agreement anyway.

"Did you stay home from school too?"

"Oui," came the reply. "I was waiting for you to wake up."

Kenny smiled and snuggled deeper into Christophe's bed.

"That was sweet of you," Kenny said because he knew it was the only time he'd ever be able to say it and get away with it unharmed.

"Just go to sleep," Christophe snapped, but Kenny could tell he was smirking.

Kenny heard the Mole make his way to the door, and he was suddenly gripped by a panic so fierce it almost ruined his drug-induced calm. He sat up straight and wrenched his eyes open, ignoring how his body protested vehemently.

"Don't go," he said before he could stop himself. "Please Christophe...Don't—Don't leave me."

The Mole stood at the doorway for a while, just watching Kenny, his face impassive. Then he ran a hand through his wild hair, pulled his desk chair up to his bed, and sat. He put his feet up on the bed next to Kenny's legs and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Fine."

Kenny smiled and fell back down into the pillows.

"Thanks dude," he said, and was asleep within minutes.

Kenny awoke the next morning feeling ten times better, but he figured that he was probably still under the effects of the morphine, so he couldn't really be sure. He got up weakly and inspected his face in Christophe's mirror.

When he removed the bandages, he was glad to see that most of the swelling had gone down. There were still dark purple bruises around his eye and cheekbone, and a large gash on his bottom lip, but other than that, he didn't look too bad. Kenny smiled and winked at his own reflection before heading downstairs.

He entered the kitchen, expecting to see Christophe in there as usual. Instead, the Mole's mom was sitting at the table, drinking a steaming cup of coffee, munching on a small piece of bread and reading a newspaper. She looked up when Kenny entered and beamed at him.

"Bonjour Kenny," she said happily, standing and ushering him into a seat. "'Ow wonderful zat you are awake at last. Christophe 'ad said...but never mind zat. _C'est enfant est très bizzare quelquefois..._ _As-tu faim? _Are you hungry?"

"Umm, yes Ma'am," Kenny said, rubbing the back of his neck in confusion. "Umm... where's your son?"

"Ee eez taking a shower," she answered, pulling some butter, jam and a small bowl of fruit from the fridge and placing them on the table in front of her. "Would you like a baguette?"

"Yes please," he said, watching as she added some jam to a piece of freshly baked French bread.

She placed it on a small plate in front of him and pushed the bowl of fruit towards him as well.

"Let me get you some 'ot chocolate. _Christophe! Dépêche-toi(hurry up)! _You'll be late for school!"

Kenny was half way through his baguette when the Mole stumbled into the kitchen, glaring at his mother as if she'd insulted him. His hair was still dripping from his shower, and he was barefoot. However, he looked clean, for once. His forearm was cleanly wrapped in a new white bandage, and Kenny noticed Christophe's mother furrowed her brow slightly when he walked in, her eyes lingering on the bandage as she looked him over.

Kenny took a sip from the mug of coco that the Mole's mom had poured for him and raised a thin, pale eyebrow.

"Come on zen Kenny," he said, taking a croissant from a plate on the counter and taking a large bite out of it.

Kenny stood.

"Thank you for breakfast Ma'am."

She waved away the comment easily.

"Eet was a pleasure," she said, smiling. She turned back to Christophe, sending him a warning glare. "Don't even think about taking 'im to school on zat motorbike of yours Christophe." Christophe rolled his eyes. The Mole's mother seemed to take this action negatively. "_Christophe. Je suis sérieux_(I'm serious)."

"Fine Muzzer," he sighed. "Hurry up Kenny."

"I'm coming."

"Oh, Kenny?" Mole's mom called after them when they exited the kitchen. " 'Ow long are you planning on staying wiz us?"

Kenny stopped and furrowed his brow. He was about to ask her what exactly she meant when the Mole answered.

"Just for a week or so Maman," Christophe called in a sickly sweet voice. "C'est bon?"

"Oui," she called back. "'Ave a good day at school boys!"

The Mole's shoes were waiting by the door, and he quickly slipped them on. He swept out the door with Kenny on his heels, Christophe pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he did so.

"So," Kenny said, watching Christophe with a large grin on his face. "When were you planning on telling me I was staying at your place for more than a night?"

The Mole shot him a glare and took a long drag off his cigarette.

"Eet is for your own protection. Your location 'as been compromised. Until I find ze beetch who authorized zis, you weel be staying with me."

"I thought you killed them all," Kenny said as Christophe pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the doors to a black Dodge Viper.

"Zey were ze brawn," Christophe said, ignoring the awestruck look Kenny had on his face as he examined the car. "Ze one who sent zem was ze same cocksucker who hired me to break one of zem out from prison ze uzzer day. Once I find him, you can go back home."

"Dude," Kenny said, distracted from the conversation as he got into the car.

Christophe only rolled his eyes and backed out of the driveway, zooming down the quiet street quickly. They were at Kenny's house in a matter of minutes.

"Get your bag, and some changes of clothes," Christophe said.

Kenny nodded and jumped out of the car, racing inside. He found his backpack exactly where he'd left it a couple of nights ago, and quickly stuffed his unfinished math homework inside. He grabbed another bag he found under his bed and stuffed it with two more jeans, a couple pairs of boxers, some socks and his last three clean shirts. Almost as an afterthought, he went to his bathroom and shoved his toothbrush inside too, but thought against taking his shampoo and soap. It wasn't like his family could afford to buy more, even if it was only for a week or two. Besides, he could always steal some of the Mole's. Shrugging, he ran back and hopped into Christophe's super hot car, throwing his stuff into the backseat.

"Ready," he said, bright smile lighting up his face.

Christophe nodded, flicked his cigarette out of the open car window, and they were off.

"So," Kenny said several minutes later, "when did you get this car? I thought you had a motorcycle."

"I bought zis two years ago," Christophe said, gesturing with his right hand to the car. "With ze money I got for killing some beetch in Taiwan."

"Oh," Kenny said, inspecting the car with a frown on his face. "You must have been paid a lot. Was the guy important or something?"

"I would assume so," he answered. "But I deedn't think to ask. I don't get paid to think. I get paid to do what eez required of me."

Kenny made a small, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and stared out the passenger window, watching the South Park mountain range slip past them. Park County High lay just on the other side of the mountains, closer to North Park than any other of the Park Counties.

A comfortable silence descended on them after that, and ten minutes later they were pulling into the high school's parking lot. Kenny tried to ignore the looks his peers sent them as Christophe locked the car; for some reason, they were giving Kenny the creeps. Normally, he was an attention whore by nature. Whereas Christophe scowled at anyone who so much as looked at him strangely, Kenny reveled in the awestruck faces of his classmates as he strutted down the corridors, but today (probably because he'd just been kidnapped and subjected to hours of torture by men twice his age and size) any inquisitive glance sent their way made Kenny skittish.

It wasn't until third period that he remembered he must still look like shit, and at least some of his anxiety vanished. He reassured himself that no one in the school was psychic, and since neither Kenny nor Christophe had told anyone of 'the incident' (as Kenny had started to refer to it), no one would know about it.

When the bell rang that signaled the start of lunch, Kenny had jumped out of his seat and had immediately started a search for the Mole. Normally, Kenny spent lunch with his douchebag friends, but Kenny was still feeling a little uneasy around civilization in general today, and didn't think he'd be able to handle his friends acting like idiots for an hour.

Idly, he wondered if he was developing some sort of complex, but he just shook the thought away. It was just because he was still a little freaked out, and that wasn't anything too serious right? It'd go away the next time he died.

Yes, he decided, that must be it. Kenny was freaked out because he hadn't died in so long, and he was probably developing some sort of normal anxiety against dying.

Kenny found Stan and Kyle talking to Christophe behind the library ten minutes later, and he frowned, wondering what they might want to talk to the Mole about. Kyle was mostly the one talking, and he had on that determined face of his, the one he normally used when arguing with Cartman. Stan was standing by him, arms crossed over his chest with a slight frown on his face. Christophe was leaning against the soda machines, smoking a cigarette and watching them both with his cold, calculating eyes.

The color drained from Kenny's face, and he rushed over to the group, placing an hand on Christophe's forearm in a way Kenny hoped was calming and relaxing. He plastered one of his patented feel-good grins onto his face in an attempt to ease the tension that was hovering between them.

"What's up dudes?" Kenny asked in an overly-cheerful voice, eyes darting between the three boys.

Christophe tilted his head slightly so he could see Kenny out of the corner of his eyes and took a drag off his cigarette. Stan and Kyle exchanged a meaningful glance before turning to Kenny with matching worried expressions on their faces.

"Hey Kenny," they said almost in unison.

"Dude, where've you been?" Stan asked after a look from Kyle. "We've been worried. And like, what happened to you?"

Kenny's smile faded from his face slowly. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to cover his bruised eye, then let it fall limply to his side.

"Umm..." he said, chancing a quick glance to Christophe to gage his reaction. He had, predictably, remained as stoic as ever. Bastard. He could at least help Kenny in coming up with a lie. "Oh, um, it's nothing dudes. I just got, um, mugged by...umm...a rampaging moose—in heat."

Stan furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side while Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. Christophe remained studiously silent. He let out a breath of smoke into the air around them, and Kenny could have sworn he heard an almost imperceptible sigh hidden in the exhalation.

"That's weird," Stan said, and Kyle nudged him in the ribs.

"Well, it's the truth," Kenny said a bit sheepishly.

He turned to Christophe for help, a pleading look on his face.

"Allez-y Kenny," he said. "Let's go."

"Wait but we wanted to talk—"

But Kyle was abruptly cut off as Christophe grabbed Kenny by the wrist and turned them roughly around, crossing the street to the small park bench without a backwards glance. Kenny waved at them cheerfully, but he wasn't entirely sure they saw it. Stan and Kyle had buried themselves into what looked like a serious conversation as they walked away, both with frowns on their faces.

"What was that all about?" Kenny asked

"Nothing."

Kenny rolled his eyes.

"You know," he said, taking the cigarette from the Mole's fingers and flicking it into the grass. "You really need to learn how to communicate properly."

The Mole growled in a way that Kenny suddenly found incredibly sexy. He turned back to Christophe, to see him glaring at Kenny as he searched his pockets for another of his death sticks. Kenny smiled sweetly in response.

"Zey wanted to know where you were yesterday," Christophe said. "Zey saw us zis morning and had assumed zat your injuries were either caused by me or because of me."

"Oh." Kenny's smile died a painful death as he watched the Mole sit down on the park bench angrily. "Well, what did you tell them?"

Christophe shot Kenny another glare before he rolled his eyes and tilted his head in a silent invitation for Kenny to join him on the bench. Kenny ignored the way that simple action made something flip in his stomach.

"I didn't tell zem anything," the Mole answered. "You were ze one 'oo came up with zat abysmal lie."

Kenny pouted.

"It's not my fault I'm a terrible liar. You really should have come up with something better yourself then."

The Mole sighed He ran a hand through his hair, stood and started pacing in a restless manner.

"I would have eef you had been at your lunch table like normal. Honestly Kenny, what were you even doing? Lunchtime eez nearly over and I doubt you 'ave had anything to eat."

Kenny blushed and looked down at the floor, suddenly finding his shoes very interesting.

"Nothing," he said quietly. "It's just that...I didn't want—and, like, class had ended, but you still weren't—and—I was looking—and well, _you weren't there_."

Idly, he wondered when he became so infuriatingly inarticulate. Kenny heard some quiet shuffling and then a pair of black boots came into his line of vision, reminding Kenny for one panic-filled second of the other night. But then he looked up, and it was only Christophe, standing before him with a tiny smile playing on his lips.

He didn't say anything, he just took a seat beside Kenny again and sat there in silence for the rest of lunch. Kenny appreciated the silence towards his strange admission. Kenny knew Christophe could tell why exactly Kenny had gone looking for him instead of just going to his regular lunch table. Christophe must have known that Kenny was still a little paranoid, and it made Kenny's ego feel a little better that Christophe had chosen to remain silent on the matter.

When the bell finally rang, Kenny watched Christophe leave. He watched the way the sun danced across his muscles barely concealed in his black shirt, and the way his shovel would sometimes catch the light in just the right way to sort of sparkle. Then, ignoring the way his body was trying to get him to catch up to the Mole and entwine their fingers together, he sighed and began his own walk to class.

It wasn't until he was dozing slightly in his classroom that Kenny came to realize three things.

One, the first, was that his raging libido (that had gone on hiatus the day Butters broke up with him nearly six months ago) had finally returned. The second could only be the cause of the first, which was cause for some serious celebration: he was therefore finally getting over Butters.

But the third, and perhaps the most pressing and potentially catastrophic of his realizations, was that he might actually be developing some sort of less than-platonic-feelings for Christophe.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**A/N: **Hooray for Kenny's raging libido! I know it didn't really show up here, but trust me, in the chapters to come, Kenny will be his good 'ole perverted self...

And also, I think I've finally come up with, like, a plot for this monster of a story. It only took me like, what? 50 pages or so? Jesus, I suck.


End file.
